


The Secret's in the Skull

by shadowed_sunsets



Series: I Knew Them Well [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magical AU. In the short span of their relationship Sherlock has been keeping many important secrets from John, ones that won't stay secret for very long if his instincts about Moriarty are correct. And then once those secrets come out after the pool incident, everything does in fact fall apart. Quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is my first (posted) one in the Sherlock fandom, and comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their respective authors. This is also completely written, so I will (probably) be posting regularly. The next story in the series, and yes, this is a series of at least two, is not. Also, when I say 'brief' and 'non-explicit' character death.... they are, trust me.

From the very beginning Sherlock had known that the world around him was not quite what it seemed at first glance. He knew that behind what most of the population could see, there was an entirely different world. One full of magic and sorcery, as well as other things most people with their thick, dull brains could never imagine.

Since Father was an enchanter and Mummy a sorceress, with the Holmes family also well-known for its abilities, that world had been a major part of his life growing up. He might not have any actual power himself; all of that talent had fallen to Mycroft (much to the disdain of their father), skipping Sherlock. But he was still able to identify spells, and was also immune to many of them- mostly because of experimenting between him and Mycroft when they were younger.

In contrast to Mycroft’s daily magic lessons, Mummy had taken it upon herself to teach young Sherlock many of the herbal blends, and other non-magical medicines she was infamous for. She believed that while he might not have any magic-related gifts, Sherlock could make up for it in other ways instead of treating it as a handicap.

Even after he left home and found his own residence and line of work, (the final straw leading to the current hostility between him and his father- father had never approved of the ordinary population) Sherlock still never really left behind the world of magic.

He wasn’t so ridiculously blind like most people. The world might be ‘unseen,’ but if you looked closely, and really paid attention, it was very clearly there. This was why Sherlock was often caught between his despair of the idiocy of ordinary people (to some extent courtesy of Father) and his fascination with the normal world (courtesy of Mummy). So many of the people in the world could be ridiculously idiotic and blind with their inability to see or detect magic at all; he didn’t understand how they were able to live with such blindness. Those who weren’t able to actually perform magic, but could see or sense it to some degree, were only slightly better in Sherlock’s opinion. At least those people were aware, at least partially, of what they were missing.

When he first met John, Sherlock could tell in the first few minutes that John had no awareness of the other world lurking right underneath the every day one. But Sherlock had the suspicion that if anyone could possibly figure it out, it might be John. He was nearly certain that John, like Lestrade, were part of the population privileged enough to catch glimpses of the world Sherlock knew so well.

He was still careful not to give anything away, something that became extremely difficult when Mycroft decided to make one of his surprise visits. While his brother had taken their parents lectures, and the Law itself, about keeping the world secret and safe to heart, there were still times when it was as if Mycroft couldn’t help but show off. He never did anything too obviously unnatural in case John’s sometimes more than typically insightful mind may become suspicious, but Sherlock had an eye for his brother’s particular brand of magic. Yet, thankfully, when Mycroft wasn’t around, the world of magic nearly faded into the background of everyday life and Sherlock and John’s time was spent more practically solving crimes for the police.

Everything seemed to be going well, with John continuing not to have any solid notion of the world of magic, or how their relationship may possibly be changing.

But then the name Moriarty was whispered, and Sherlock found a new game to play. One where his brilliant mind was put to use to solve the five puzzles, with John’s help. Unfortunately, along with this new game also came the end of Sherlock’s ability to keep his one major secret from John.

Although he wasn’t the one to actually give it away - that was Moriarty.

Together, he and John followed Moriarty’s clues, solving each puzzle. They had admittedly been rather interesting, and Sherlock had enjoyed them, but each time there was very clear evidence of dark magic. This was just more proof that Moriarty was much more than he seemed, and extremely dangerous if he had honestly gone against the Oath. The death spell on Carl Powers’ shoes (still there even after all these years), the strong ‘don’t look, don’t see’ charm on the car, the jealousy twisting Connie Prince’s houseboy’s mind, the enchantment stopping the security guard from sharing his findings. They were all signs of dark magic, and Sherlock was certain they were also all Moriarty’s doing- even if he couldn’t tie the man to them. Obviously Moriarty was a very, very dangerous magic user, which was worrying since he didn’t know exactly just how powerful Moriarty was or how much a threat he was. Sherlock liked to think he made up for his lack of magic with intellect- and there were times it was interesting to not know what he was up against. Of course, he could have asked Mummy- or even Mycroft- to gather information on Moriarty. Sherlock knew that with their ties and contacts, in the High Council and both governments respectfully, they would have access to more than even he did. But, for now, Sherlock would rather try to solve this particular problem on his own.

Of course, Sherlock was regretting that decision when he found himself standing face to face with a John wearing a parka and strapped with a bomb: a bomb, of all things. Even though Sherlock suspected Moriarty’s plan was to make him think John had betrayed him, Sherlock for one knew John was much more loyal than that- even without his brother’s ‘test.’ There were also numerous aftereffects of Moriarty’s influence on the vest and the bomb, as well as the earpiece John was wearing. The use of the earpiece was curious, especially since it wasn’t very trustworthy when coupled with magic. Did Moriarty really think Sherlock couldn’t tell? He may not be able to actually perform magic, but that only meant he was an expert at detecting and seeing it. Sherlock was a member of the Holmes family after all, and had grown up under Mycroft, Mummy’s, and at times Father’s, tutelage.

But it turned out the earpiece was useful after all, at least for Moriarty’s purposes. And even before Moriarty started slowly walking closer, Sherlock’s ingrained instincts (both those trained by his parents and the more ordinary human ones) were screaming ‘danger’ at him. Then as Moriarty started talking and baiting both Sherlock and John, his own confidence took a turn when he realized that the man in the pristine suit was not only unhinged, but possibly just as powerful as his father if Moriarty put his mind to it. And his father was one of the most powerful people Sherlock knew, other than the nine-lived enchanter of course.

Unfortunately that revelation, in addition to the red sniper dots and the bomb vest John had been forced into, greatly reduced their likelihood for survival. Sherlock was actually not sure if either of them would survive- and that was unfortunate since he had been looking forward to many more late nights and chases around London with John. This also wasn’t exactly how he had imagined going out- facing down a man whose genius was par to his own. He especially hadn’t meant to get John involved in this game with Moriarty. There was a reason why he had waited until John left for Sarah’s before he’d left the message on his blog. But, of course Moriarty had to mess up his plans and kidnap John.

(Sherlock made a mental note for himself that if he and John did survive this, he would ask either Mummy or Mycroft- probably Mummy since she’d probably not hold it over him like Mycroft undoubtedly would- to make a protective charm for John. Sherlock was surprised he hadn’t thought of doing this before considering how much trouble the two of them found themselves in, but now that Moriarty had entered the picture John would need it even more.

But that was only if he and John survived this ‘meeting.’)

The main trick seemed to be keeping the madman talking about his plans as he seemed want to do- at least until Sherlock thought of a plan. It was a good thing he’d thought to bring Johns’ gun before he came. If he was lucky- not that he believed in luck- he’d be able to shoot before Moriarty could do anything. Even if magic against a gun wasn’t a very even match, he still had his detailed knowledge of magic that he’d gathered over time- and Mummy’s protection.

Sherlock believed he’d done a fairly successful job of keeping Moriarty’s focus on him and off of John. (Not very difficult when the man seemed more interested in him in the first place.) But then, Moriarty, or Jim, or whatever he was calling himself, abruptly stopped talking and instead looked very carefully at Sherlock.

“I’m a specialist, you see,” he said proudly, leaning forward a little. “But you already knew that, didn’t you Sherlock?” Moriarty asked, sneering with a shark’s smile.

Sherlock decided to try to pretend he didn’t know what Moriarty was talking about. This wasn’t the time he wanted John to find out; he wanted that revelation to come later and on his own terms. So he said instead, letting Moriarty know he was aware the other man had designed the crimes, “Dear Jim, won’t you fix it for me to disappear to South America? Dear Jim, won’t you get rid of my lovers nasty sister? Dear Jim-“

Moriarty’s smile sharpened, his eyes narrowing. “Just so,” he confirmed, emphasizing each word. “But, there’s more than that…isn’t there, Sherlock?”

“You’re a consulting criminal, brilliant,” Sherlock commented softly, not letting the gun shake at all. He tried to ignore Moriarty’s prying question, and keep him from remembering he’d asked. Sherlock was more worried about how the criminal mastermind had discovered he knew about the other world that Moriarty obviously had strong roots in. Perhaps he had unwillingly let something slip earlier? Sherlock silently cursed himself for doing something so idiotic and possibly letting Moriarty get the upper-hand- however temporary. The man was nearly as brilliant as he was; of course he’d figure it out if Sherlock gave him even the slightest hint. He had to remember to be careful from now on. Not only was there the Law to think of, but also the protection of John and his family- even if he didn’t get along with most of them.

Moriarty’s gaze briefly flickered over to John’s stiffened back and lowered head, but quickly returned to Sherlock. He then said, sounding quite proud of himself, “Isn’t it?” Moriarty paused briefly before he continued, smirking slightly as if to let Sherlock know he wasn’t fooled, “And of course, I can offer much more than the common criminal.” He said the last two words in a voice dripped with disdain, as if he couldn’t stand the lower class of criminals. “Since I have so many,” Moriarty paused dramatically, “extra tricks up my sleeves.” As he said this, Moriarty pulled his hands out of his pockets and waved them at Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head at Moriarty’s fondness for the dramatic. ‘Tricks up his sleeves,’ as if he were some kind of street magician instead of the powerful man Sherlock suspected him to be. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock noticed John raise his head and look keenly at him with confusion written all over his face. Maybe he would get lucky after all. Sherlock carefully kept his expression fixed on Moriarty as he continued advancing slowly towards them. If he could distract Moriarty… and also get that bomb vest off of John, they would be better off.

Moriarty stopped a few steps behind John, smiling at the two of them. “Well, Sherlock dear, what do you think? I’ve given you a little taste of just what I have going on, of the things I can do.” That smile widened dangerously, and he leaned forward, looking interested. “Did you like all the clues I left you, all those cases?”

Sherlock took a step forward, moving closer to John as if he could protect him. “Is that what they were all for? To show me what you could do?” He drawled disinterestedly. “You wanted me to solve all of those cases; you went to the trouble of bringing my attention to them, for… what? To prove I could?”

“No. No, no, no,” Moriarty disagreed quickly, sounding surprised by Sherlock’s confusion. “I know what you can do, Sherlock. I’m a fan remember? I’ve been following your work, all your cases.” Moriarty paused for a brief moment, perhaps for dramatic effect, before continuing. “No, this was just a way to say hello. To arrange a meeting face to face, since I did so want to meet you.”

John’s expression shifted to surprise at Moriarty’s pronouncement, and Sherlock noticed that John nearly spoke aloud before remembering the vest and whatever warning Moriarty must have told him before Sherlock arrived.

“And why were you so eager to meet me then?” Sherlock questioned, glancing over at John again. “Before, you were content with strapping people with bombs and using their voices to talk to me. Why change that now?”

Moriarty let out a long breath, looking quite pleased with himself, and perhaps Sherlock. “Well, I might have followed your cases, but I wanted to get to know the real you. The real, Sherlock Holmes,” he announced in a grand voice. “And when you presented the opportunity… well, I couldn’t exactly say no, now could I? Not when you were kind enough to set everything up for me.”

“So this is entirely my fault then,” Sherlock clarified, wondering why Moriarty was so inclined to talk at the moment. He made the two of them sound like kindred spirits, and there hadn’t been as many threats or warnings off as he’d expected by now. “If I hadn’t left the note on my website, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” Sherlock frowned, “Why is this meeting so important to you?”

“Because, Sherlock, you’re important of course,” Moriarty said gleefully, rocking back and forth slightly. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire.” He looked intently at Sherlock, tilting his head. “But, you’re a bit more than that aren’t you? Just like I’m more than what I appear.”

Sherlock smirked, unable to stop himself rising to the bait just long enough to ask, “What, more than Jim Moriarty, St. Barts IT employee? Of course not.”

Moriarty smiled sharply. “Oh, very good, Sherlock, very good. But, you can’t distract me so easily. I’m well aware you know what I’m talking about, you can’t hide it.” He took another inquisitive step forward, his eyebrows raised above dark, gleaming eyes. “So, tell me Sherlock,” Moriarty paused to flick his gaze over to John before quickly looking back at Sherlock. “Does your pet know?”

Sherlock looked quickly at John as well, taking in the set shoulders, the stiff back, and set expression. John might be strapped to a vest of Semtex, but he was more annoyed then afraid. Taking the opportunity to ignore Moriarty, he turned his head and asked, the gun still trained on the mad man, “Are you alright?”

John’s eyes met his, and he gave a very small nod. But he didn’t take the opportunity to ask Sherlock what was going on.

Moriarty seemed disappointed by this. With a tense frown, he leaned in extremely close to John. “You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go on, I bet you’re dying to know just what we’re talking about.” Moriarty glanced over at Sherlock for a quick moment, his eyes like daggers when he looked back at John. “He always keeps you in the dark, doesn’t he Johnny-boy? You’re just his little pet, never able to follow his brilliant mind, always two steps behind.” The man pulled a little away from John and addressed Sherlock again. “I don’t see why you keep him around. Don’t you get tired of always having to explain things? It takes so long to get things through that thick, human skull.” Moriarty looked disgusted, sneering at the two of them.

“I find I don’t mind the company so much,” Sherlock told him calmly, but he glanced over at John again. “He can be surprisingly helpful at times.”

Moriarty gave him a disbelieving narrowed-eyed look, but Sherlock was happy to hear the quiet, amused chuckle from John. It seemed John had managed to maintain his sense of humor, for what it was worth.

Moriarty’s response to this was to make a ‘tsk’-ing noise and shake his head. “Well, this is touching, really touching.” He commented sarcastically, voice rising and falling as he spoke.

Sherlock took a cautionary step backward; something was wrong, something was about to happen. And all he had was the gun, and John, who was still strapped in explosives.

“But, if you’re going to refuse to play my game, Sherlock,” Moriarty lifted his chin, lips pursed. “And really, I’m disappointed in you darling; then I’m afraid this isn’t going to be a friendly chat anymore.” The faintly amiable expression that had previously haunted his face suddenly disappeared, making him look nearly inhuman. Sherlock had seen hints of it before while they were talking, parts of the madman peeking through, but now… he actually found it unsettling. It made him wonder, and worry, just what Moriarty’s plans were.

“Well,” Sherlock replied shortly. “I’m sorry that I disappointed you.”

Moriarty’s mouth twisted in what might have been a smirk. “So glad to hear it. And don’t worry,” he gave Sherlock a long, level glare, “this won’t be the last we see each other.” The man took one step forward, and then another, until he was halfway between Sherlock and John. “You and I will have many, many more talks, more puzzles,” he paused, “more games,” Moriarty grandly emphasized the last word.

Sherlock cocked the gun, the noise echoing sharply around the pool. “And what if I don’t want to play your games? What if I was to shoot you now?” He drew a sharp breath and steadied the gun. “Right now?”

Moriarty smirked. “Well, I suppose I’d be surprised, Sherlock. I really would. And,” he continued, drawing out the word, “It’s not like it would do you any good. Because,” he smiled darkly, “I could just do this even before you had a chance to shoot.”

John lifted his head at Moriarty’s comment, expression fading from panicked worry to the confusion he seemed to be feeling a lot that day. That confusion grew ten-fold as Moriarty raised his hand, holding it sideways with his palm and thumb parallel to each other. For a pause Moriarty tilted his head curiously to the side again, with the smile of a boy who has just found his new favorite toy. Then, with an eager look, he snapped his fingers.

Sherlock felt a tug on the gun in his hand, but he tightened his grip and after a few seconds it stayed where it was.

When he realized it wasn’t working, Moriarty frowned darkly. Then, with extra fierceness, he snapped his fingers again.

The tug on the gun was harder this time, but Sherlock still managed to keep it in his hand- even if he had to bring up his other to do so. That was another part of the evidence Sherlock needed to confirm that Moriarty was as powerful as he’d predicted- usually only his family could cause him to struggle with magic.

Moriarty actually pursed his lips in irritation, but he did lower his hand back to his side. Sherlock couldn’t help but give a little smirk at the notion that he’d beaten Moriarty at this. A quick glance to the side showed that John was looking between the two of them, appearing to be utterly perplexed. Sherlock wondered if he could tell what they were doing at all; other than him holding the gun tightly and Moriarty snapping his fingers. It must seem odd without knowing the reason.

After a long pause, Moriarty sneered, “Well, you’re just full of surprises. Aren’t you, Sherlock dear?” He didn’t look nearly as amused anymore.

Before Sherlock could reply, or offer Moriarty the flash key with the missile plans- supposedly- John rushed forward and tackled Moriarty’s slimmer form, wrapping one parka-clothed arm around the other mans neck and the other around his waist. “Sherlock, run!” He ordered, trying to keep Moriarty in place even as he struggled.

Sherlock tried to fight down the panic that was quickly rising within him. It was dangerous enough for John to have done that if Moriarty was just a regular consulting criminal mastermind, but since he was also an enchanter- and had his arms mostly free still, Moriarty wasn’t as restrained as John thought he was.

Moriarty’s wild grin was back again. “Ooh, goooood,” he praised sarcastically, still struggling even though it seemed mostly half-hearted.

John tried to get Moriarty directly in front of the sniper, but the other man wouldn’t stop moving as the sniper continued adjusting his aim. “If you don’t tell your sniper to back off, Mr. Moriarty, I’ll make sure we both go up,” he told Moriarty harshly, his eyes still focused intently on Sherlock.

“He’s sweet,” Moriarty informed Sherlock, appearing to ignore John completely. “Utterly useless, but sweet.” He tilted his head back to address John, “did you really think you could stop me Doctor Watson? Did you honestly think this would work?” He laughed when John tried to shift him in front of the sniper again. “Because, you see, you rather showed your hand there,” Moriarty teased, and laughed again when a red sniper dot appeared right in the middle of Sherlock’s forehead.

John felt Moriarty twist a little again to look at him, but he only had eyes for the red dot marking Sherlock. Apparently Moriarty had snipers everywhere, not just in positions to set off the bomb he was wearing; the man knew how to be prepared and seemed as good as Sherlock at rushing into things. Knowing that Moriarty was right, and he’d messed up his chance, John stilled completely. Then he quickly released the other man and backed away, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. John didn’t understand what had been going on between Sherlock and Moriarty for the past few minutes, the second war that seemed to be going on under the surface. But he wouldn’t put Sherlock’s life on the line like that. John had been trying to protect Sherlock, yet he’d ended up putting him in the line of fire. It was fine when he did it to himself, he was a soldier and used to endangering his life. And compared to Sherlock, his life was much less important.

So, while he did back away, John kept a careful eye on Moriarty, trying to figure out what the man would do next.

Moriarty turned to glare degradingly at John as he tugged his suit back into place and straightened it. “Westwood,” he declared snidely, looking back at Sherlock. The detective tried very hard not to roll his eyes; of course the man had an eye for expensive clothing, he shouldn’t be surprised. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock?” Moriarty asked in what could have been mistaken as friendly. “To you?” He added, lowering his gaze from the wall above Sherlock’s head to Sherlock himself. He didn’t even look at John.

Sherlock frowned slightly, momentarily puzzled. “Why would you want me to leave you alone right after you’ve gone on about how interesting I am?” His mouth twisted slightly. “I thought you enjoyed these so-called little games of ours.”

“Oh, I do, Sherlock,” Moriarty agreed readily, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I really do.” He then clicked his tongue, and shook his head once. “But,” the man continued, drawing out the word again and pitching it high, “I’m afraid that if you don’t stop prying… something terrible will happen, to you.” A smile flickered on his pale face. “I won’t kill you of course, not right away. Someday maybe, but I don’t want to rush it.” Moriarty pressed his lips together, but then shook his head as if shaking away a bothersome thought. “No, I’m not going to kill you…” his eyes traveled down to Sherlock’s chest before looking directly at him again. “But,” Moriarty whispered, eyes dark and dangerous, “I will burn you.” He hissed, leaning forward slightly, eyebrows gathered together, “I will burn the heart out of you.”

The words were harsh, and his expression matched it, his eyes burning. Sherlock could practically hear the ring of truth in them. Moriarty honestly believed he would burn his heart, when Sherlock didn’t actually have one.

But before Sherlock could voice this, suddenly the loud cracking noise of what Sherlock identified as a gunshot being fired echoed around the empty pool. Sherlock turned his head to look over his shoulder in the direction the shot had come from, even fighting back the urge as he did so. Sherlock imagined that the world suddenly slowed down, nearly stopping, until he could see every detail including the bullet on its path towards, and then past him. He suspected that the shot was an accident, fired before its time, and that he was the target.

But it turned out that he was wrong, oh so wrong, and there was nothing he could do- as if his mind suddenly refused to work, the gears somehow stuck- only watch, now understanding the phrase heart in your throat, as the bullet went past him, over his shoulder, then past Moriarty’s right ear and still, still it wouldn’t stop. It just continued flying farther and farther, Sherlock’s eyes following its path as it went straight for sweet, normal, loyal John and the blinking trigger light on that awful bomb strapped vest. Here he was, the great, observant, world’s only consulting detective, and all he could do the second before the bullet hit that trigger was yell one word, just John’s name, and hope he had been able to pour everything into that one word, that single syllable…

But he couldn’t tell, he was never able to see John’s reaction, because suddenly the entire world was on fire… and then everything went dark.

A few seconds later, just after Doctor John Watson, Sherlock Holmes took his last, final breath.

~*~*~  
(Please don't kill me. Next part soon.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some things, but not many, are revealed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is my first (posted) in the Sherlock fandom, and comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their respective authors. This is also completely written, so I will (probably) be posting regularly. The next story in the series, and yes, this is a series of at least two, is not.
> 
> I'm posting this so quickly mostly in an attempt to try and get around LJ which keeps on refusing to let me post anything. But I hope you ao3 readers enjoy it as well ;)
> 
> So without further ramblings from me, I hope you enjoy.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade called perhaps a little louder than necessary as he stepped out from 221B and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. “I think we might-“

The rest of the words died in his throat at the sight of two oh-so-familiar profiles standing by the foot of the stairs.

John was leaning with his back against the wall, his face set in the expression Lestrade had seen many times when Sherlock was at his most insufferable. Sherlock was poised opposite John, leaning against the banister and looking as if he were a permanent fixture there. His expression didn’t give much away, not that it ever did, but it was still one Sherlock often used when he thought someone (John) was being particularly thick.

“No, Sherlock,” John was saying firmly. “You’re not listening. This isn’t something you can play around with. The two of us have to be in it, together.” He leaned forward, giving Sherlock a stern look. “You can’t just run off without telling me anything.” John pointed a finger in warning at his flat mate. “Do you understand, Sherlock?”

Sherlock huffed, but didn’t reply with one of his usual snappish comments. “Yes, yes of course,” he said instead, waving his hand absently. “I’ll be sure to inform you before I even consider doing anything…” Sherlock switched from echoing John in a tone of infinite boredom to finish, repeating the word distastefully, “reckless.”

John studied Sherlock closely in an attempt to tell if he was being honest, not that he could really tell. “Well, alright then,” he finally said agreeably with a sharp nod, and then resumed his place against the wall.

Sherlock gave his flat mate a curious inquiring look. “Is it?” Before John had a chance to reply, he added, “Good, very good.” He then abruptly turned his head up towards where Lestrade was most definitely not eavesdropping. “Have you had enough of prying Lestrade?” Sherlock sighed dramatically and glanced back at John. “Absolutely no privacy in this place,” he grumbled resignedly.

John chuckled quietly in amusement, but then seemed to catch himself. He looked down at the stair, hiding a smile.

“Alright, Sherlock,” Lestrade called soothingly, stepping out to the edge of the landing. “Well done and all that.”

Sherlock sighed quietly, and glanced briefly up at John with a faint smile playing on his lips. John happened to catch Sherlock’s eye and his smile broke out in full.

Lestrade’s earlier words had come almost on impulse, not quite yet out of the habit from all those years of dealing with Sherlock. But now the sight of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson standing in the entrance way of 221 Baker Street, as if they’d never left even after the near complete destruction at the pool, was enough to make him pause.

The two looked exactly the same as the last time Lestrade had seen them at New Scotland Yard, just like during the long hours they’d spent chasing a ghost who left hostages and bombs in his wake as he played with puzzles and egged on Sherlock. When Lestrade had sent Sherlock and John back to Baker Street- mainly because the doctor looked dead on his feet even as he warily eyed Sherlock’s restless pacing in the small space of Lestrade’s office- Lestrade had known there was still one so-called ‘pip’ left, but he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be idiotic enough to actually invite this Moriarty character to a meeting at the pool. But, of course Sherlock wasn’t content to stay at the flat and wait patiently for the next message.

Lestrade only regretted that he hadn’t thought to warn or actually (attempt to) order Sherlock and his doctor not to do anything reckless and to instead stay put. It was because of him that two of the greatest men in London had died, far before their time.

At least, he had thought that was what happened.

“Are you alright Lestrade?” John’s voice inquired from below, sounding slightly worried- just as Lestrade expected from a doctor. “You’re looking a bit…” He blinked rapidly, “pale.”

Lestrade fought back a laugh. Was he? Strange that, it was a complete mystery why. “I’m fine,” he replied instead, coming down a few steps. “Just feeling a little odd that’s all,” -odd as in talking with two people he knew should be dead.

Sherlock briefly glanced up at him, no doubt taking in a million little clues in that short span of time. “Ah, hence the calling of Mrs. Hudson,” He stated knowingly with a slight nod. “It won’t work,” he added, “she never answers when I call.”

“That’s because you don’t call, Sherlock, you yell,” John reminded his flat mate, his voice stern but a grin on his face. “She’s also our landlady and not our housekeeper, but apparently you’ve forgotten that as well.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise and waved his hand in the air. “She won’t admit she can hear me otherwise- even though Mrs. Hudson has perfectly good hearing. And as for only being our landlady, she just says that so we won’t make her run up and down the stairs at all hours.”

“No, because she doesn’t already do that,” John said sarcastically, but Sherlock didn’t seem to hear. So John instead looked up at Lestrade. “Why did you need Mrs. Hudson?” He asked, and then added warily, “This isn’t another pretend drugs bust is it?”

“No, not this time,” Lestrade reassured, and absently noted the annoyed look on Sherlock’s face. He moved down the stairs until he was directly above them. “I’m not here in an actual official capacity,” Lestrade hedged, unsure of how to tell the men in front of them, who he did think of as friends, that they were almost certainly dead and he was here to see if Sherlock still had anything that was actually the property of the Met.

Sherlock started into action, peeling away from the banister to nearly thunder up the stairs in his hurry.

Lestrade, who really shouldn’t have been surprised by this, tried to get out of the way but didn’t quite manage it in time. As he turned to press his back against the banister, Sherlock’s suit-clad arm briefly brushed his as the consultant detective hurried past him and up the stairs to the flat.

At least, that was what should have happened. But instead of brushing his arm, Sherlock’s actually went through his. Literally, went through it, as if his arm wasn’t there at all.

If Lestrade had needed any proof that this Sherlock and John weren’t real, beyond the evidence of what his team had found at the pool, well, here it was. It wasn’t normal for arms to go through other people as if they weren’t there.

Lestrade expected Sherlock to not notice, or to notice but not realize what it meant in his rush to get upstairs and no doubt see what was being done to the flat now. But Sherlock, who was always surprising him, stopped as still as a statue with one foot on the step and the other in mid-air. Then he slowly put his foot back down and turned to look down at Lestrade.

It was one of those looks that made Lestrade’s skin crawl and him feel like Sherlock could see right inside him and read his every thought. Sherlock’s piercing stares had gotten better since John Watson had entered Sherlock’s life, but it was still incredibly unnerving.

Sherlock stared at him for what felt like an incredibly long time, with John still poised on the bottom step with his hand on the banister. Then, without speaking at all Sherlock slowly moved, his eyes still focused on Lestrade, until they were level again. Lestrade did his best not to blink or pull away, but it was difficult since Sherlock didn’t seem to believe in personal space at all. Lestrade was very close to feeling crowded.

His feeling of unease grew even more as Sherlock raised the hand closest to him. Then, as if he was one of Sherlock’s experiments, the consulting detective moved his hand forward towards Lestrade’s shoulder.

Lestrade stiffened slightly, waiting for the hard prod of Sherlock’s finger against the cloth of his shirt. The man didn’t ever do anything by halves.

But, it never came. Once again the finger went through his body instead of being stopped.

Lestrade raised his eyes from where he’d been staring at Sherlock’s finger in his shoulder to look at the other man’s face. He expected the other man to be surprised or confused, but instead he was wearing what Lestrade thought of as the face he made when he’d had an epiphany. It was one Lestrade had seen in quick succession during the hectic hours of the chase after Moriarty, once Sherlock had figured out the clue but before he (attempted to) explained it. But now, the appearance of that look meant something else entirely.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked cautiously, waiting for the sharp retort or for Sherlock to wave his hand in a demand for silence.

But Sherlock didn’t answer at all. Instead he slowly withdrew his finger from Lestrade’s shoulder, only to replace it again a few seconds later. Even though he knew it wouldn’t hurt, that it was going to go through him, Lestrade still found himself flinching.

When Sherlock’s finger was half-buried in his shoulder for the second time, the other man’s expression suddenly snapped into focus and he could almost see Sherlock’s mind starting to work. Then, without warning, Sherlock thrust more of his hand forward until it was buried up to his wrist.

“Oh,” the detective breathed quietly, his gaze focused on his hand in Lestrade’s shoulder. Then he called, without turning his head or tearing his gaze away, “John. John, come here.”

John, who despite not having known Sherlock for very long had still gotten used to following Sherlock’s whims, turned his gaze to the detective. “Sherlock?” He asked cautiously, now glancing between Lestrade and Sherlock in an attempt to discover what the consulting detective was upset about this time. Even in his brief experience, he knew it could be practically anything.

“Give me your hand, John,” Sherlock demanded, somehow knowing that John had come to stand on the step below him.

To his credit, John barely blinked at the command. “W-what?”

“Your hand, John,” Sherlock repeated shortly, and then held out his hand that wasn’t currently buried in Lestrade’s shoulder. Then, when John wasn’t fast enough for his liking, Sherlock actually reached out and grabbed his wrist.

With both men captive Sherlock now turned his full attention to John. He obviously trusted Lestrade not to move in the meantime. Not that Lestrade was going to, even if Sherlock didn’t actually have any way of keeping him in place. But he had known Sherlock long enough to know that whatever was going on wasn’t just a whim that had briefly caught Sherlock’s interest. This was serious- yet Lestrade found it reassuring that Sherlock seemed to understand, at least to some level more than he did at the moment.

Sherlock seemed to be currently preoccupied with inspecting John’s hand. It appeared that the two of them could touch, which was leading to Sherlock trying all sorts of experiments consisting of poking at John’s hand, arm, and wrist. In the meantime Lestrade was staring at Sherlock’s upper arm. It wasn’t like it was a particularly handsome arm; he was just wondering if he, in turn, wouldn’t be able to touch Sherlock. Lestrade glanced at the other man, and then raised his hand towards Sherlock’s arm. But no matter how hard he concentrated, his hand just went through. It seemed he would have to wait until Sherlock felt inclined to move, or remembered there was actually a world outside of his mind.

So he looked over at John, momentarily ignoring Sherlock. The man had the same expression Lestrade had seen when John was doing something only to humor Sherlock- one of equal parts amusement and annoyance. He let Sherlock continue prodding him for a minute or so- Lestrade wondered just how many experiments John had suffered at Sherlock’s hands- before finally pushing away the prodding hand.

“Enough, Sherlock,” John said firmly. “I’m not one of your experiments.” But that didn’t seem to put Sherlock off at all. The detective still looked like he was trying to dissect him with his mind. “What’s the matter with you anyway? And what’s so fascinating about my hand?”

“What’s wrong, John,” Sherlock told him in a tone only a few levels away from his ‘you’re being insufferably thick’ voice. “Is that I can apparently touch you.”

John sighed quietly as Sherlock took his hand back, but he didn’t pull away this time. “Unless I’m really missing something, Sherlock, that’s not unusual.”

Sherlock shook his head, still studying John’s hand. “No, for once you’re at least not missing the major point, John. However…” Still holding John’s hand- Lestrade wasn’t sure if that was on purpose or not- Sherlock turned his burning gaze back to Lestrade. And, before the DI could protest, Sherlock began prodding his arm yet again.

Sherlock made an annoyed noise when his finger still met no resistance then withdrew to try again. When it still went through, Sherlock tried his chest, then his other arm, and finally, lips thin with irritation, Lestrade’s forehead.

That was the last straw for the DI. He irritably tried to push Sherlock’s hand away, forgetting that it would- and did- go right through. “Sherlock, will you stop that?” Lestrade scolded, hoping (most likely in vain) that it would be effective. “What are you on about?”

But apparently he had already left Sherlock’s plane of awareness. With a soft exclamation of, “oh, of course,” Sherlock rushed down the stairs and then around the corner. Sherlock disappeared before Lestrade or John could call after him, and Lestrade turned to meet John’s gaze. “Do you know…?” He asked, and then quickly trailed off as John shook his head.

“We might be flat mates, but that doesn’t mean I have any more idea of how his mind works than you do,” John told him with a small, sarcastic smile. “All I managed before you turned up was to get him to promise not to run off and do something reckless.” The smile flickered, “and that was hard enough.”

Lestrade chuckled, “I can imagine.”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice called from somewhere nearby and below them.

John’s head quickly snapped up as he turned in that direction, like a dog that had caught a scent. A second later he offered a quick “sorry” to Lestrade before rushing down the stairs and going after Sherlock.

Lestrade opened his mouth to call after them, but then quickly realized it wouldn’t be any use. Instead he just hurried after the pair, arriving just in time to watch John rush through the closed door to 221C. He had gone through it as if the door wasn’t even there, or as if it’d been open already. Just like… no, there were no such things as ghosts. That was just on telly and the cartoons he’d watched as a child. This must be a dream then. Lestrade had hoped often enough in the past few days that the consulting detective and his doctor were still alive; that they hadn’t died in the explosion at the pool as everyone believed.

Whatever this was, it was just wish fulfillment. But, all the same, he didn’t want to wake up.

Lestrade came to a halt in front of the old white door that led to the basement rooms. Just to test that he hadn’t been seeing things, Lestrade raised his hand and placed his palm against the door. It seemed completely solid, just like a door should be.

“John? Sherlock?” He called, knocking on the door. There was no response. Sherlock was probably already going on about something, and John was performing his usual role of trying to control his flat mate and interpret at the same time. Lestrade just didn’t understand what was so important in 221C that Sherlock (and John) had to go running off.

Yet his curiosity had been peaked- typical when dealing with Sherlock- and he was eager to fill it.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He called loudly, but not as loud as Sherlock, while hurrying down the hall towards the back rooms. Lestrade needed to get into that basement right away, before Sherlock could get into any (more) trouble.

~~ * ~~  
Next part soon, comments are (as always) appreciated ;)  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a little more is revealed... very slowly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is my first (posted) in the Sherlock fandom, and comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their respective authors. This is also completely written, so I will (probably) be posting regularly. The next story in the series, and yes, this is a series of at least two, is not.
> 
> I think I'll keep hosting this story here instead of my LJ since ao3 seems to like me much more at the moment. But I hope you ao3 readers enjoy it as well ;)
> 
> I also want to thank all of you wonderful people who have taken some of their precious time to read my humble story. You have made me a very, very happy writer! So thanks ever so much for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and even those of you who just stopped by to read. I cannot thank you enough <3<3<3
> 
> Sorry, this one is a bit shorter than the others. And I should also warn for a bit of changing POV.
> 
> So without further ramblings from me, I hope you enjoy.

John rushed after Sherlock, hearing the urgency in his flat mate’s voice; but then he stopped when he came to the hallway leading to the back rooms. He hadn’t heard Sherlock go out the front door, but even with Sherlock’s speed and long legs he couldn’t have made it all the way back to Mrs. Hudson’s rooms. That only left the basement- yet there wasn’t any sign of the door having been opened and closed again in the few seconds since he’d last seen Sherlock. The idiot couldn’t have just disappeared, even Sherlock couldn’t do that.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice demanded from his left, through the door to the basement. It was the voice John recognized as somewhere between ‘come quick, I’m being brilliant’ and ‘hurry, one of my experiments might have possibly gone a little wrong.’ Either way, it was a call John knew he should hurry at the sound of. Without thinking John turned and ran through the basement door, going through the motions of opening and closing it without noticing that he didn’t actually have to.

When John arrived in the basement rooms, it was to see Sherlock standing near the fireplace on the wall to his right. The other man had his back to John, and didn’t seem to have even noticed John had entered.

“Sherlock?” John called as he took several steps towards him.

But his flat mate seemed to be preoccupied with poking his head in and out of the wall at various intervals along it. When he realized just what Sherlock was doing, John blinked, and then when that didn’t help he tried rubbing his eyes. In the meantime it took several minutes until Sherlock finally gave a cry of triumph from where he was nearly a third of the way along the wall to the right of the fireplace. “I knew it was here somewhere,” Sherlock murmured to himself. Then, with the excited grin John recognized from when the consulting detective had experienced a breakthrough, Sherlock actually stepped through the wall.

John had seen many things in his relatively short life, especially during his stint in the army and the few months with Sherlock. But he had never seen anyone actually disappear through a wall before. Sherlock may be very different from anyone else John had ever met, but this was beyond anything he’d ever suspected of his flat mate. “Sherlock?” He called again, stepping forward again.

“Give us a minute, John!” Sherlock’s voice replied, sounding distracted as well as muffled by the wall between them.

“No, I won’t,” John disagreed stubbornly. He tried to figure out just where Sherlock was, but didn’t have any luck. “Just what are you doing in there?”

“Bit…busy, John,” Sherlock bit out from behind the wall, peaking John’s curiosity even further.

“Sherlock, I-“

“Here, John- catch!”

Suddenly there was something flying at him from the direction of the wall. He still had good enough reflexes to be able to catch the object right before it would have hit him in the face; even without looking Sherlock still had surprisingly good aim.

John lowered his hands and glanced up at the wall. But Sherlock still hadn’t reappeared, so he took the chance to look down at what he was holding. John’s first thought was that it was a skull. Hardly revolutionary or up to Sherlock’s standards, but it was still an observation nonetheless. His second thought was that it looked an awful lot like Sherlock’s pet skull.

“Sherlock, isn’t this Yorick?” John called, confused as to how the skull had found it’s way into his hands, not to mention the wall in the basement.

“Who?” Sherlock asked absently, the question followed by a strange noise.

John sighed, staring down at the skull. “Never mind.” Even if he did explain, John doubted Sherlock would understand the reference. He didn’t think Shakespeare would be an area of expertise Sherlock was familiar with, but then he never really knew.

John contemplated the skull he was holding. After looking at it for awhile, while trying to ignore the odd sounds coming from behind the wall, John came to the realization that this wasn’t Yorick in his hands. According to Sherlock, he had gotten Yorick from a body at St. Bart’s who’d died from a very gruesome homicide. But this didn’t look like the skull of the same man.

This skull had fractures on the back and the top, as if the owner had had their head slammed with extreme force against something very hard. There were also some places where it looked like someone had had to piece parts of the skull back together post-mortem; as if there’d been a situation where the skull, and most likely the person themselves at this level of damage, had been caught in the center of an harsh explosion.

So why had this strange skull been buried in one of the walls of their basement? It was just like Sherlock to live in a place where some kind of gruesome murder had taken place; but John didn’t suspect Mrs. Hudson would allow anyone to live here if that was the case.

“Sherlock,” John called again, holding the skull a careful distance away from him. “Just who is this?” He had gotten used to Sherlock’s pet skull, after a while, but another one was a bit much.

“There you are!” Sherlock announced excitably. A few seconds later he was striding back through the wall holding… was that a skull? Another one?

John stared for a long, long moment and then asked cautiously, “Sherlock, just how many skulls are back there?”

He was treated to one of Sherlock’s ‘you’re being thick’ looks. “Only two, John; don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock advanced forward, holding the second skull lightly in his hand.

“However, it does mean my suspicions were correct,” he added, a slight frown pulling at the edge of his mouth as he gazed down at the skull; as if he hadn’t wanted them to be correct, John thought.

It seemed like he was always doing double-takes around Sherlock. “And just what suspicions were those then?” John asked skeptically, wondering if Sherlock was trying to distract him or if this was his flat mate’s attempt to explain.

Sherlock lifted his head to fix John with one of his thousand-yard stares. “First you must promise you won’t do any of that running away screaming nonsense. I would hope you’re much too composed to do such a thing, but I want to be certain before I tell you.”

John was still back on trying to find out what the hell Sherlock was talking about. After all these months of running around London together, and with Sherlock’s legendary observation skills, John would hope the other man could have worked out that he wasn’t be scared off by just anything.

But apparently there were still some things that missed Sherlock’s attention. So he gave the other man his best smile, and said, “I’ve managed to survive living with you this long, Sherlock. I think I can manage whatever you’re trying in your roundabout way to tell me.” John tilted his head slightly, “Invaded Afghanistan, remember?”

Sherlock treated John to one of his rare, honest smiles. “Yes, but that wasn’t just you.”

John laughed, amused, a grin finding its way onto his face. “Right, well. Try your best then.”

For the first time since they’d met, Sherlock actually looked uncomfortable in a situation he did have control over. And instead of telling John whatever information he was mentally working over, he just stared at the skull. From what John could see, it didn’t seem all that unusual. But the look on Sherlock’s face…

“Sherlock, are you all right?” John asked worriedly, stepping closer.

Sherlock didn’t answer; he just kept staring down at the skull. Finally he let out a soft sigh and began, “John, I-“

There was a loud noise outside the door then, and Sherlock was interrupted.   
“Sherlock, John,” Lestrade called as the door slammed open and he burst into the room. “I need to talk to-“ he stopped in the middle of his sentence, noticing what Sherlock and John were holding. “Hang on, are those skulls?” Lestrade asked incredulously, stopping where he was. “Wasn’t one enough, Sherlock? Do you really need three?”

Sherlock made an exasperated noise, and pursed his lips. “If you would look closely and use those eyes of yours, Lestrade, then you would see that these aren’t ordinary skulls,” the consulting detective snapped irritably in the voice he usually used to scold the Yard’s finest. “Note the distinctive shapes, both belonging to a Caucasian male, roughly thirty years old. They died rather recently, of blunt force trauma leading to severe fractures of the skulls. The owners also likely suffered severe third degree burns.” Sherlock raised his head to fix Lestrade with one of his dissecting stares. An elegant eyebrow rose above the icy gaze. “Does that remind you of anything, Detective Inspector?” He inquired, his tone somewhere between sarcastic and curious.

Lestrade stared at the taller man, his mouth hanging slightly open without his noticing.  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade began in the tone usually saved for crime scenes when Sherlock insisted on annoying everyone, and Sherlock did bristle in response. “Do you mean you actually understand what’s going on here?”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock replied sharply. His hand shifted slightly so he was almost cradling the skull against his side. “Once I gathered all the data, it wasn’t difficult to deduce the situation.” Sherlock’s gaze flickered briefly over towards John. “However, improbable it may seem.”

John’s forehead was furrowed as he echoed, “’improbable’… right.” Then he sighed and licked his lips. “Wait, sorry- what are two on about? What… situation?” John shifted his weight a little, still standing with his arms at his sides and his feet a little ways apart.

But Lestrade was still hung up on something else. “This is all ridiculous. How could you possibly have guessed- sorry, ‘deduced’” -he corrected quickly when Sherlock loudly cleared his throat- “it? How did you even know this was possible?” Lestrade asked, sounding completely bewildered. But Sherlock, Sherlock was taking this all in stride, as if it was nothing unusual.

“There is much more to the world than the trivial amount the average person notices and attempts to comprehend each day, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock told him in his usual enigmatic tone and vague non-answer. His gaze leapt over to John and then refocused on the skull he was holding. “So many things,” Sherlock murmured quietly.

“If you two ever feel like letting me in on what you’re talking about,” John spoke up, looking increasingly annoyed, “I’d like to be told. Otherwise,” he finished, gaze flicking between them, “I could murder a cup of tea.”

Although it was barely noticeable, Sherlock flinched slightly as John said ‘murder.’ “Stay, John,” he quickly ordered before John could say any more. “There’s a certain important matter you should be aware of.”

John’s expression shifted to one of mock-surprise, still clearly annoyed. “Is there? Nice of you to finally let me know.” He crossed his arms, the effect somewhat ruined by his usual cream-colored jumper. It made him look much more ordinary and fragile than intimidating. “So what’s this ‘important matter’ then?” John asked, exaggerating the implied air quotes.

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, but he could feel Lestrade and John’s anticipatory gazes. Instead he found himself studying John, sweeping him over from head to toe. If you didn’t know the situation was unusual, the unsuspecting person may have thought they were just three blokes gathered in a damp basement with two of them holding skulls. In his wool jumper and faded jeans John looked like almost every other man in London on a given day. And yet, in the several months they’d lived together, Sherlock had started to entertain the possibility that he might one day be able to call John Watson a friend; or maybe even more.

Of course that possibility was gone now. He knew how dangerous this life of his was, that everyday might be his last; but for him that just made it all the more exhilarating. Part of Sherlock knew he should have driven John Watson away, sent him somewhere safe before John could get caught up in the chaos and danger that was Sherlock’s world. But he’d been caught off-guard by his fascination with this ordinary-looking doctor and ex-soldier who still contained numerous hidden depths and was also willing to put up with him. He’d been independent for so long, that having someone running alongside him and helping him with cases was new and thrilling.

John Watson had had a vast amount of potential, much more than even the least idiotic officers at the Yard. Yet now, thanks to him, all that potential had been wasted. Except…

“What do you remember of the pool, John?” Sherlock asked curiously. His own memories were annoyingly vague on some parts of that night, and it was important to know just what John remembered. Sherlock needed more data before he could consider how and what to tell John as the truth; correct recall of what had happened at the pool would possibly be the key to proving his suspicions fully correct or incorrect.

John looked inquiringly at Sherlock, one side of his mouth tugging slightly upward. “You mean, before or after you decided it’d be a good idea to meet a madman in an empty pool at midnight?” He asked, voice nearly dripping with sarcasm at this instance of Sherlock’s brilliance.

From where he was watching them, Lestrade made a noise that was half-sigh, half-laugh. “I should’ve known it was you,” he commented, fiddling with something in his pocket. “Really shouldn’t surprise me by now that you’d actually go alone to meet a murderer without any kind of backup.”

“He didn’t tell me at all what he was doing,” John quickly jumped in, taking the opportunity to scold Sherlock again. The look he was pinning Sherlock with was the same one John used when he was the most annoyed with his flat mate. “Just drove me out of the flat so he could go off alone. Of course, that ended up well seeing as I was kidnapped and strapped with a bomb vest.” The smile lasted a little longer this time as he added more cheerfully, “I think I prefer your brother’s method of kidnapping, as annoying as it is.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile, despite still being busy trying to figure out how to tell John the truth without blurting it aloud or making it sound too unbelievable. “Don’t tell him or he’ll insist on kidnapping you more often.”

“You were kidnapped,” Lestrade echoed, sounding increasingly incredulous as he went on. “And strapped to a bomb?” He pulled his small notepad out of a pocket and flipped it open to a blank page. “We knew there’d been an explosion, but our team’s still working on the source.” Lestrade’s hand dipped back inside his pocket in search of a pen. “Sorry to say there was so much damage that we haven’t found much.” He raised his head to give each of them a searching look. “So if there’s anything either of you can tell me, I’d appreciate it.”

The amused look quickly slipped off of John’s face at Lestrade’s words, to be quickly replaced by a mixture of suspicion and confusion. “What explosion?” He asked impatiently. “What exactly happened at that pool?”

~~~ * ~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part in another week; comments, or however you want to tell me if you liked it, are appreciated ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John tries to use the deductive skills he's gained from Sherlock, and Things Begin to be Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is my first (posted) in the Sherlock fandom, and comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their respective authors. This is also completely written, so I will (probably) be posting regularly. The next story in the series, and yes, this is a series of at least two, is not.
> 
> I think I'll keep hosting this story here instead of my LJ since ao3 seems to like me much more at the moment. But I hope you ao3 readers enjoy it as well ;)
> 
> ~~~ * ~~~
> 
> You guys are AMAZING! Over a THOUSAND hits for THREE chapters!? I can not express in words just how awesome and brilliant and utterly fantastic all of you are. Here, have some cookies! *throws internet cookies at all of you* You have made this humble writer very, very very happy. I can't believe it, I'm just so surprised and touched by how much you all seem to enjoy this story.
> 
> So here's a reward for you- okay, not the greatest one but still- a new chapter.
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy this little story of mine, I've certainly enjoyed writing it
> 
> <33

Sherlock made an annoyed sound and turned to Lestrade, lips pinched in disapproval. “Thank you, Lestrade. I had hoped to find another way to tell John, but I suppose hitting him over the head with the truth will work as well as any other option.”

“You don’t usually mind putting us to shame with your dazzling deductions,” Lestrade commented wryly. But he wasn’t very surprised to learn that Sherlock possibly valued John’s reaction just as much as the truth. Lestrade had been privy to a front-row seat for the changes John’s presence had brought about in Sherlock’s life, and he was happy for the two of them. “However, I’m rather busy at the moment with this investigation, so I don’t have time right now to argue.” He poised the pen above the paper in anticipation. “Now, give me anything you can and I’ll leave you both alone.”

John strode forward until he was very close to Sherlock, and then stood in such a way that he gave the impression of looming over the taller man without actually doing so. It was a reminder that until recently John had, after all, been a soldier, a detail Lestrade often tended to forget. “Sorry, Lestrade. We’ll give you our statements later on,” he announced in a voice that matched Sherlock at his most obstinate. “Right now there’s something Sherlock needs to tell me. Isn’t there, Sherlock?”

Sherlock cleared his throat with a conspicuous cough, trying to hide his discomfort with the situation as well as the purely steel tone John had just used. “Yes,” he replied mildly, attempting to think while John was glaring at him like that. It was irritatingly difficult. “Do you remember, John, at the pool when you attempted to hold Moriarty and then suggested I run? When, for whatever idiotic reason, you thought I would leave you there alone to deal with him?” His tone ventured into ridicule near the end, mostly aimed at the fact that John would believe he’d agree to such a thing. But the way he was looking at John at the moment betrayed all of that entirely.

John chuckled shortly, tilting his head to look down at the floor. “Right, that wasn’t one of my greatest ideas, was it?” His eyes flickered briefly up to Sherlock before returning to the ground. “But I would do it again, if I had to.”

“Then I suppose the fact it is unlikely that particular situation will be repeated is positive news,” Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice level despite the odd warmth growing in his chest. He had been astonished and also terrified the first time John had put his life in danger like that- for him!- but to think he would willingly repeat it… “Since you won’t ever have to.”

John’s head jerked abruptly upward at that to take in both Lestrade and Sherlock’s expressions as he tried to understand. As his gaze momentarily settled on Lestrade, John faltered, “But I thought- you didn’t say anything about actually catching him, did you?”

Lestrade shook his head in the negative. The DI didn’t appear to understand at all what he and Sherlock were talking about, which John took to mean that the police hadn’t been able to learn much from the pool. “No, there wasn’t any sign of a third body or any other people; just you two. He must have left the building in a hurry while we were still on our way.” Lestrade clarified for John, finally putting the notepad away in acceptance that he wouldn’t be getting anything from these two, not now anyway. “And there’s been no sign of him since.”

In any other situation Sherlock would have chosen to make a remark about the incompetence of the Yard’s officers, and the likelihood that his brother was already in the middle of his own investigation. But Sherlock was distracted by the look on John’s face as his mind tried very, very hard to understand all the data been thrown at it.

“So he got away then,” John concluded, his face settling for the moment. “Great, brilliant. Just one more madman let loose on London.” He must have come to another conclusion just then, because John turned to Sherlock with narrowed, slightly suspicious eyes. Looking into them Sherlock saw how frantically John’s mind was working, and quickly looked away to cover any guilt John may glimpse.

“But you, Sherlock,” John began, obviously speaking his thoughts out loud. “You said I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Yet Lestrade,” He looked over at the DI who stiffened slightly, glancing at Sherlock, “said there wasn’t any sign of Moriarty- that he escaped. So, unless you’re planning to leave me behind and go hunt him down,” John continued, addressing Sherlock again, “which I really doubt considering what we just talked about in the hall, there has to be another reason you’re telling me not to worry. One that’s not about Moriarty… but something else.” He leaned in even closer to Sherlock as he finished his monologue, searching his flat mate’s expression for any clues if he was right or not. “Well, Sherlock?” He asked in a softer, almost beguiling voice. “What are you hiding from me this time?”

Sherlock absently wondered if this was what people felt on the other side of his examining looks. It was extremely uncomfortable, and he found himself squirming slightly, unable to meet John’s eyes. Finally it all built up to too much, and his control broke so that he found himself blurting, “We didn’t survive, John. One of Moriarty’s snipers set the bomb off prematurely...” Sherlock hid the catch in his voice with an abrupt cough. “There wasn’t time to take any action, to try to protect ourselves, and… we didn’t survive.” For some reason both his mind and mouth refused to fully form the word ‘died,’ or put it in any combination with ‘we,’ ‘John,’ or ‘you.’

In the meantime, John’s face was doing odd things as he went almost unnaturally still, while Lestrade looked like he wanted the earth to open and swallow him whole.

Nearly several minutes later, during which Sherlock tried to label every emotion going across John’s face and wasn’t altogether successful, John finally spoke.

“Sherlock,” he began hesitantly, licking his lips. “When you say, ‘we didn’t survive,’ you don’t actually mean that we…” John pulled a face that was mostly a wince, and then seemed to force himself to say, “died, do you?”

His tone made it plain he hoped this was just a joke- that Sherlock and Lestrade were pulling one over on him for some reason. But at the same time there was a kind of resignation in his eyes that Sherlock wondered if came from John’s experience in a war zone where you could actually be killed at any moment.

Sherlock found himself latching onto that question as he replied cautiously, “Yes, John. That’s exactly what I mean.”

He forced himself not to react to his announcement, to keep his expression still even as John stepped back from him. It became even more increasingly difficult when John looked at him and then Lestrade with a silent, nearly desperate appeal in his eyes. Sherlock wished for once that he wasn’t so insistent on the truth and could instead reach out and reassure John, to wipe that look off of his face. But this was the truth, and presumably John had either come to that conclusion on his own, or had read it from himself and Lestrade, because John suddenly began fiercely shaking his head.

“No, oh no. You’re joking,” he announced in fierce denial, staying in place but looking like he wanted to pull away. “I did not survive until now; I did not survive getting shot at, just so I could go in an explosion planned by a psychotic madman!” John told them, his voice nearly an impatient shout by the end. “I thought things were looking up; I thought I’d finally found my place when I met you, Sherlock,” John continued. He looked so fiercely at Sherlock that Sherlock could practically feel himself straighten. “I thought we had something, that together we could do something really…. great.”

By the time he finished, John’s voice had now faded away into almost nothing. His posture changed almost completely to being nearly curled into himself, almost like how he’d been when they’d met for the first time, making Sherlock worry just how upset John was. The outburst hadn’t been much of a surprise; John may have a long fuse compared to most people, especially with body parts in the fridge, but when he did finally snap, it was usually with explosive anger instead of cold. But Sherlock had only seen John curl in on himself a few times, and it had never been a good sign concerning the man’s mental state.

He was about to say something to coax John back out again when John stirred again and gave a biting laugh. “So,” John said quietly, running a hand over his face. “If I’m- we’re- actually dead, then how are we here and talking to each other? Or to Lestrade?”

Sherlock very nearly rolled his eyes at the question, however appropriate it might be to John. He may have lived as part of both worlds, mainly in the ordinary world, but he was still constantly annoyed by the utter blindness of the London population. They could be so ridiculously thick and nonsensical about what was plainly obvious. And unfortunately that seemed to still include John.

“No John,” Sherlock corrected, trying to disguise his annoyance. It wasn’t necessarily John’s fault, and John was most likely too busy having a crisis at the moment to be scolded for his idiocy. “I agreed with your statement that we…died,” he still had difficulty saying that word, “But in the past tense, not in the sense that we are dead now.”

Sherlock stopped from continuing his explanation when he noticed John was giving him a look of questioning his sanity, and his twitch had returned. He had obviously lost John even more than was usual. Sherlock cast around for another method of explanation. “We did die in the explosion; our bodies were destroyed, most likely burnt. But right now, the two of us who are standing here talking, are neither alive nor dead.”

Surprisingly it was Lestrade who asked the inevitable question. “You mean like ghosts? You two are ghosts?”

Sherlock silently cursed all of his ancestors and the rest of that community for the misleading misinformation they had sent out over the years. “Not really, no. But if it helps your slow minds to understand, then I suppose yes, you can think that way.”

“But if we’re not ghosts,” John said slowly, peering critically at him. “Then what are we? And why don’t I feel any different from when I was alive? Shouldn’t I be able to tell I’m… apparently not alive but not dead?”

Sherlock fought back an amused smile. Now John’s mind was finally working and thinking of excellent questions. If John continued this way, Sherlock might actually be able to get through the rest of this conversation. Now if he could only contain his explanations to terms they could understand; or John could since Lestrade shouldn’t really be listening in on this. But there must be something about the DI he hadn’t noticed before, something important, if Lestrade was able to see both him and John. In that sense it was likely better for Lestrade to stay, and Sherlock would just have to try to hide it from Mummy and Father for as long as possible. He had less hope about keeping this from Mycroft.

“The simplest, although not entirely correct, term would be ‘stranded spirits.’” Sherlock started to explain, wondering when one of them would ask the inevitable question of how he knew all of this. “We are already dead, so there is no possibility for us to return to our previous state of being alive. Yet, at the same time, we are not completely dead. Our bodies are gone, yes.” He gestured carefully with the skull he was holding, mindful not to drop it. “The skulls are evidence of that. However, even though our bodies have moved on, our spirits have not. They are still trapped-stranded-in this world, unable to pass on to the land of the dead.”

John, who seemed to be following Sherlock’s explanation relatively well, lifted his gaze from staring bewilderedly at the skull in his hand. “So that’s what we are then, spirits?”

Sherlock nodded agreeably. “Yes, spirits is one word I suppose. Ethereal manifestations of ourselves. Why did you think you’re wearing those clothes instead of what you wore at the pool? Or why you’re not in fact breathing or your heart beating?” His mouth was running off without him again, but Sherlock was distracted by trying to find out just how this had happened to them. It was related to Moriarty yes, but now? “You only believe you are breathing and your heart is beating, because it is natural after so many years. But if you were to consciously stop now, nothing would happen. And you’re wearing those clothes specifically because it’s how you see yourself in your minds’ eye.” He had started pacing over a short distance halfway through his dialogue, wishing nicotine patches would still work on him now. “But there is one incredibly important question that both of you are ignoring; one that would explain everything,” Sherlock told John and Lestrade excitably, and then turned to face the two of them again.

Lestrade looked skeptical of Sherlock’s pronouncement, and Sherlock wondered if he actually believed any of this. “And just what is this all-inclusive grand question then? Doesn’t happen to be the life, the universe, and everything does it?” Lestrade asked with a straight face, but then cracked a smile when John laughed quietly.

Sherlock frowned disapprovingly at the two of them. Was it possible to be driven mad after death? Or was it Lestrade whose mental state had become questionable? “No, it’s nothing so ridiculous,” he snapped. “The real question is how Moriarty was able to pull this off.”

“What, you mean manage to kill us?” John asked, his expression a mixture of confusion and amusement. “Because you said that already: one of the snipers set off the bomb early, and we were right in the center of it.” The amusement faded as he thought of another question. “Hang on… Moriarty was right in front of me. He should have been caught in the blast just as much as we were.” John turned to Lestrade inquiringly, “But there was no sign of him.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, the other tightening slightly on the skull. “Obviously he had some kind of protective medallion or charm. Or he managed to jump a safe distance away in time. But that’s not important,” Sherlock shot off before attempting to abruptly jump tracks in his line of thinking. “We need to focus on how. Even someone of his strength should have had difficulty or hesitated before trapping the two of us in this way. And how exactly did he-“

“Protective medallion? Jump? Sherlock, if you’re just-“

“Hang on, so Moriarty is the one who did this? But that’s-“

Sherlock massaged his forehead irritably. Imbeciles, he was surrounded by imbeciles who wouldn’t let him do his work when it was the most important. Before he could turn around and snap at Lestrade and John to just be quiet and let him think, Sherlock heard familiar footsteps outside the door, interspersed with the sound of metal on concrete.

‘Here comes the cavalry,’ Sherlock thought, not entirely unkindly. He would never admit it out loud, but Mycroft was much more knowledgeable than him in this particular area. Perhaps his brother could explain everything to Lestrade and John while he attempted to figure out Moriarty’s methods. If he had just a few minutes to think, he was sure he could understand.

~~~ * ~~~

You know the drill, next chapter next Friday. Feel free to leave any kind of feedback- it's all appreciated! <3

(I also want to say that if you have any questions about anything in this story please don't hesitate to ask, I don't bite- I promise)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a multitude of Holmes' and the truth starts to come out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock and its characters belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. (Unfortunately). This also hasn't been brit-picked so I apologize for any Americanisms.
> 
> A/N: This story is my first (posted) in the Sherlock fandom, and comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their  
> respective authors. The next story in the series, and yes, this is a series of at least two, is not yet completely written.
> 
> Also, YOU GUYS ARE TOTALLY AWESOME! Thank you SO SO much for all the kudos, bookmarks, and even just hits you've left me. I treasure every single one of them. I'm just happy all of you are reading this and seem to be enjoying it! You make this writer very, very happy! I hope you continue to enjoy this little story, I've certainly enjoyed writing it.

~~~

“Perhaps I can assist in clarifying several matters my brother is having difficulty explaining,” Mycroft suggested helpfully, pausing to stand in the doorway.

John sighed resignedly, suddenly looking exhausted. “Hello again, Mycroft,” he greeted amiably.

Surprised by the abrupt arrival of someone else, Lestrade turned to study Sherlock’s presumed brother. When the man’s gaze swept over him a moment later, Lestrade no longer had any doubt they were related. The ability to make a person feel like a fly pinned to the wall must be a family trait.

Lestrade remembered his manners again when Sherlock’s brother moved from his position in the doorway to walk over towards him. The tip of the umbrella he was carrying clacked on the floor in time to his steps, increasing Lestrade’s foreboding feeling even more.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man introduced himself while extending a hand out towards Lestrade. His voice was as smooth and kind as Sherlock’s could be when he was trying to charm someone for information.

Lestrade firmly shook the proffered hand, trying his best to meet the man’s eyes. “Pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he replied politely. “I’m-“

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft finished before Lestrade had the chance to. As Lestrade was mentally stumbling, the elder Homes continued, “You are the Detective Inspector I have to thank for keeping my brother entertained these past years.” Mycroft shook his hand twice and then quickly pulled away. He looked over towards Sherlock who appeared to be muttering to himself.

“I do worry constantly about him, but you seem to be taking well enough care of Sherlock.” Lestrade nearly jumped as he found himself the focus of that gaze again, caught wondering what the man meant by ‘well enough.’ It felt like John, and himself, were always looking after Sherlock. “But please keep in mind that I will be in touch,” Mycroft reminded Lestrade in a tone of friendly steel, and a tight smile to match. Then, before Lestrade could reply that he tried to take care of Sherlock but the man made it insufferably difficult, Mycroft moved away towards Sherlock.

“Don’t worry,” John’s voice suggested from beside him, “he’s always like that.” Lestrade turned his head to see John watching the two brothers with an odd mixture of emotions on his face. “That first night he kidnapped me right off the street near the crime scene and took me to an abandoned warehouse.” A small smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “It turned out he wanted to make sure I’d be loyal to Sherlock; he even offered me money and warned me it’d be dangerous.”

Lestrade nodded his agreement. “It’s not hard to tell they’re related,” he said, watching Mycroft and Sherlock’s tense conversation. It made sense to him that this enigmatic, unsettling man was the source of those late night calls, especially in his first years with Sherlock, and his frequent feeling that he was being watched. Mycroft Holmes was close to how he imagined Sherlock would be if he cared about politics, had any social skills, as well as power and influence. But of the two Lestrade preferred Sherlock over his brother.

John was grateful to note that Sherlock and Mycroft didn’t seem to have dissolved into their usual snipping matches yet. “There’s nothing like a Holmes,” John commented knowingly, thinking of all his experience with the madness of the Holmes brothers. He tensed suddenly, ready to leap into the fray as Sherlock grew visibly more irritated with his brother. “Sherlock calls him his archenemy, as if people in real life actually have archenemies, and the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.” John glanced over at Lestrade. “Sherlock might be a major drama queen, and it’s mostly just extreme sibling rivalry- but Mycroft is very dangerous.”

Lestrade was about to reply that he expected nothing less from a brother of Sherlock’s, when Sherlock’s irritated voice carried from across the room.

“I’m no longer a child, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped shortly, hands jammed into his pockets. “And I refuse to be persuaded by threats of upsetting Mummy!”

Mycroft’s voice remained as unruffled as ever. “It’s good then that I’m not making any such threats,” he replied mildly in the face of Sherlock’s anger. “I’m simply trying to help, Sherlock.”

“Then perhaps you should actually help,” Sherlock replied scathingly, crossing his arms and leaning slightly backward. “Or you could leave and let me handle this on my own.”

Next to Lestrade, John stirred into movement again. “Right, I can see where this is going,” he muttered gloomily. “Just give me a second,” John told Lestrade before he hurried across the room towards the brothers.

If that was John’s response to the obvious hostility between Sherlock and his brother, instead of rushing over to try to pull them apart, Lestrade wondered just how often this happened. He wasn’t as surprised by the fact that this is how the brothers interacted as that Sherlock had a brother. But, looking back over the years he’d known Sherlock, it explained quite a lot.

Just as John came level with Mycroft and Sherlock, the elder Holmes turned- in the middle of Sherlock’s current tirade- to look over at John. “It’s good to see you again, Doctor Watson,” he greeted in what could have passed as a warm tone, “Despite the circumstances.”

“Despite Sherlock and I being dead, you mean,” John clarified without thinking, and then winced a moment later when he realized just what he’d said. “Sorry, that was… insensitive.”

Mycroft solemnly shook his head. He smiled a little as Sherlock stopped talking once he noticed no one was listening, then lightly corrected John,” No, Doctor Watson, it was the truth.” Taking advantage of his brother’s silence, Mycroft asked curiously, “Has Sherlock informed you about the current situation? Has he told you anything at all?”

“Of course I have,” Sherlock said irritably, butting in before John could answer himself. “But I’ve been too busy answering questions that I haven’t had time to consider the how or why.”

His brother gave him a disapproving look, but Sherlock ignored it completely. Instead he asked quickly, “Have Mummy and Father been told yet?” Sherlock scowled, his expression darkening briefly. “The High Council doesn’t know, do they? If they do we may be forced into hiding.”

“There’s no need for your dramatics, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded as if he wasn’t often given to dramatics. “I can confidently assure you that the High Council does not know, as of yet,” Mycroft added at the end, with a touch of warning. As Sherlock’s scowl darkened and he began to fidget irritably, the elder Holmes continued, “As for Mummy and Father, do you honestly believe that something like this could happen- to one of their children, no less- and they wouldn’t be quickly aware of it?” At Sherlock’s accusing gaze Mycroft confirmed, “Yes, Sherlock, even without my own intervention.”

John wasn’t certain why, but Sherlock’s mood seemed to oddly improve at Mycroft’s news. A smile tugged at the side of his mouth as Sherlock responded, “Well then, I suppose I can work with that.”

“I don’t suppose either of you are going to tell me what’s going on,” John asked the brothers jovially. He suspected he might possibly have to wait for them to complete their own separate conversation before he would be told anything. The Holmes brothers had an annoying way of holding a conversation without very few words that siblings often had. But of course, these two took it to a ridiculous level. “Like what this High Council is, why you’re here Mycroft, or, perhaps, what exactly happened to us- just to begin with?” He suggested irritably, trading looks between the two of them.

Mycroft actually looked surprised at John’s outburst of questions. He turned to look impatiently at his brother, one brow raised elegantly. “I thought you said you’d explained the entire situation, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bristled, scowling again, and didn’t quite meet Mycroft’s gaze. “I, well I tried by they just didn’t understand,” he replied, voice becoming exceedingly sharp by the end. “It’s not very simple or easy to explain to begin with, and only made more difficult by my incomplete familiarity with the situation,” Sherlock glanced quickly at John who was managing to look lost and curious at the same time. “As well as my,” he briefly trailed off in order to find the right word. Then he finished, as if the words were being dragged out of him, “limited ability to give a demonstration.”

Mycroft’s hand that wasn’t holding the umbrella rose almost of its own accord. It started to move towards his brother, but then Mycroft seemed to realize what he was doing. The hand fell back to his side, and some emotion- guilt?- flickered briefly on his face before Mycroft hid it away. As if to distract himself, he straightened his shirt and coughed. But then, meeting Sherlock’s troubled gaze, he was still clearly struggling. “I apologize, Sherlock. This outcome was not part of my calculations, yet I should have foreseen this.” Yes, that was definitely guilt, John thought. “It was well within my power to prevent.”

Sherlock, as was his custom, decided to hide his discomfort with sarcasm. “There’s no need to become overly  
sentimental just because I’m no longer alive, Mycroft. I’m still here so nothing has really changed overall.”

“Except that we’re apparently dead,” John jumped in quickly, “and ghosts.”

“Spirits,” Sherlock corrected distractedly but with a hint of annoyance. “We’re spirits, John.”

Mycroft cleared his throat as a ploy to regain their attention. Once he had, he shifted his weight slightly to lean more on his umbrella, and then spoke. “Actually, Sherlock, that may not be completely correct either,” Mycroft started to explain, not feeling his usual triumph at knowing something his brother didn’t. When Sherlock became restless in his annoyance, Mycroft continued soothingly, “Just let me show you before you begin interrogating me, Sherlock.” He held his free hand out towards his brother, palm up, and waited patiently. “May I see one of the skulls?”

John looked absolutely lost, and a little horrified by what he could understand of the brothers’ conversation.

“What about the Law, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked nearly at the same time. John could practically hear the capital letters. “Surely you’re not considering breaking the Law for me,” he said in what might possibly have been a teasing remark, if not for the amused smirk.

His brother treated Sherlock to what was likely his version of the ‘you’re being slow’ look. “I didn’t think you cared about such things, brother. I’m also certain Mummy and Father will mind less about my revealing secrets than discovering just what happened to you and Doctor Watson.” Mycroft turned to look at John for a long moment before then turning to Lestrade. “And, given the circumstances, I believe Doctor Watson has a right to know. As for the Detective Inspector,” he paused, either for dramatic effect or for time to think. “I would ask him to leave, however… since he is able to see you and Doctor Watson, I suspect that would be counterproductive.”

Lestrade sensed that it was about time for him to enter the strange conversation. He walked over and stopped next  
to John, careful not to brush against him. “What do you mean since I can see them? Is that unusual?”

Mycroft and Sherlock shared a familiar look of condescension. Then Sherlock turned to Lestrade and drawled sarcastically, “Yes Lestrade, it’s a bit unusual.”

John attempted to elbow his flat mate in the side to quiet him, but Sherlock moved out of the way just in time.

“Once this situation is under control,” Mycroft added as an afterthought while eyeing Lestrade, “it may be necessary to investigate your family history Detective Inspector.”

John sighed loudly at Mycroft’s suggestion. The Holmes brothers could be so single-minded sometimes. “You were  
going to explain, and show us something,” John reminded the elder Holmes.

Mycroft turned a cool look on him, distracted from studying Lestrade for the moment. “Yes, I was,” he agreed, as  
if just remembering. He held out his hand again, “If I may see one of the skulls…”

Next to John, Sherlock shifted slightly as if uncomfortable for some reason. Finally he said, “Give him the one you’re holding, John.”

John glanced down at the skull he’d forgotten he was holding. “What? Why?”

Something flickered across Sherlock’s face, but it was gone before John could place it. “Because I don’t want to give him yours,” he admitted, not meeting John’s gaze.

John did a strange double-take, managing to mostly control his recoil from the skull in his hand. “You mean,  
this is yours?” He asked incredulously, voice slightly higher than normal.

Sherlock simply nodded. “Of course,” he replied, not appearing to understand John’s distress. Then Sherlock held up the skull in his own hand. “And this is yours.”

“I’m holding your skull…” John repeated distantly, trying to understand and also find his grasp on normality that he’d  
apparently lost. “I can’t believe this.”

“I don’t understand why you seem so uncomfortable with the concept,” Sherlock commented coolly, looking off to the  
side at John. “You’ve been perfectly fine with my pet skull all this time.”

John blinked slowly, trying to hold back a sharp reply. “If you mean Yorrick, then yes.” He paused briefly, cracking a smile when Lestrade couldn’t quite contain a laugh. “But that’s a bit… different.”

Sherlock finally gave in and turned to fully face John. “How exactly is it different? They’re both skulls.”

Mycroft cleared his throat once more, successfully ending the discussion. “If we can return to the important matter here,” he suggested firmly, and gestured once more with his hand.

John locked eyes with Sherlock for a few long moments, seeming to be looking for something.

When what felt like a long time went by and John still hadn’t handed his skull over to Mycroft, Sherlock heaved  
a heavy sigh and reached his hand out for it. But, unlike when he’d picked up his skull from behind the wall, now his hand went right through it- just like it had disappeared into Lestrade’s shoulder.

Sherlock blinked at the sight of his hand both half in and half out of his skull, not quite gaping. “That didn’t happen last time,” he commented, brow furrowing with confusion as he stared at the skull.

Mycroft showed his surprise at Sherlock’s comment by narrowing his gaze at his brother and standing straighter. “You attempted to pick up your own skull previously?”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the skull to glare up at Mycroft. “I didn’t attempt, I did pick it up.” He paused, considering, before adding, “And John’s as well.”

Mycroft made a noise in his throat. “You being able to pick up Doctor Watson’s is not significant at the moment, Sherlock. What is, is that you were able to pick up your own skull once.”

John glanced between the two brothers, checking their expressions. Then he commented dryly, “I take it that’s not… usual.”

Mycroft was the one to frown, and then answer, “No. In cases similar to yours, mainly of ghosts who are unable to move on, they are unable to touch that which keeps them bound to this world- typically a physical object.” He nodded minutely at the skull in John’s hand. “In your and Sherlock’s case, Doctor Watson, your skulls are what tying you  
here.”

John found himself only able to blink at Mycroft, trying to understand all of this. “So we’re not going to be able to hold our own skulls.”

“That’s obviously what he’s trying to say, John,” Sherlock snapped irritably, eying the skull in John’s hand. “The  
question is, why was I able to pick up my skull the first time.”

Mycroft gave a very minute shrug. “It was possibly some type of residual energy left over from when-“ He strangely  
stopped mid-sentence and then cleared his throat. “The skull, if you please, Doctor Watson.”

John studied Sherlock for a long moment; then his expression became stubbornly set and he lifted his hand to place the skull- Sherlock’s skull- in Mycroft’s hand.

As his brother’s hand shifted to cradle his skull, Sherlock felt a strong icy shiver overwhelm him until he couldn’t help but give into it. He noticed his brother send him what counted as a worried look and glared fiercely in return. Sherlock wouldn’t forget that Mycroft hadn’t exactly answered his question, he’d simply hedged.

But then they both became preoccupied as the skull began to glow a bright golden-orange in Mycroft’s  
hand.

~~ * ~~  
Thanks for reading! Next part next week per usual. Feedback/comments welcome ;)Also feel free to ask any questions as well!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end before the beginning, and before the epilogue that is really another chapter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock and its characters belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. (Unfortunately). This also hasn't been brit-picked so I apologize for any Americanisms.
> 
> A/N: This story is my first (posted) in the Sherlock fandom, and comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their  
> respective authors. The next story in the series, and yes, this is a series of at least two, is not yet completely written.
> 
> Also, YOU GUYS ARE TOTALLY AWESOME! Thank you SO SO much for all the kudos, bookmarks, and even just hits you've left me. I treasure every single one of them. I'm just happy all of you are reading this and seem to be enjoying it! You make this writer very, very happy! I hope you continue to enjoy this little story, I've certainly enjoyed writing it.
> 
> And please, please let me know if you have any questions/comments/advice or really anything. I am grateful to ALL of you
> 
> <3

John didn’t understand what had happened, but apparently Sherlock did since he suddenly went very pale. “No, it can’t be,” he murmured softly, staring at the skull.

Mycroft gave a small, confirming nod. Then, looking at his brother through hooded eyes, he spoke a word softly under his breath.

John was sure his eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline by now. If the skull beginning to glow had been an extreme surprise, then this was the ultimate shock. Skulls weren’t supposed to glow like that, and they really weren’t supposed to have strange symbols seemingly etched into the cartilage. John felt like he should point this out to the Holmes brothers, but they seemed more worried about the presence of the symbols- especially Sherlock- than if it was possible.

He tore his eyes away from the fascinating sight of the skull to look up at Mycroft. John first noted the obvious worried look in his eyes Mycroft didn’t seem to be trying to hide as he studied the skull and its symbols. But, every so often his gaze flickered upward to Sherlock, and regret came to mix with the worry. Obviously he wasn’t nearly as calm as he’d been pretending.

Sherlock, on the other hand, appeared to be intensely focused on the symbols. He was leaning almost completely over the skull, his face barely centimeters away from the surface. John was just waiting for him to draw out his favorite pocket magnifier and begin inspecting the thing. But, at the same time, he was sure Sherlock was more intent on confirming his suspicions than actually studying the skull. So this was yet another area Sherlock- and Mycroft- knew about and wasn’t telling him, even though it affected him directly.

John shifted impatiently, hoping they would decide to share.

Sherlock finally gave a long, drawn-out sigh. Then he straightened back to his full height, expression faintly pinched. “How did you come to such a conclusion?” Sherlock questioned, sounding honestly curious and not annoyed like he usually was when having to ask Mycroft something. “It wouldn’t have been an obvious at first, the concept itself is nearly unknown.”

Mycroft seemed to be annoyed by this, as if the lack of information was a personal slight to him. “There is a very definite lack of knowledge on the subject, yes. Even more seeing as it is forbidden by the High Council.”

“For good reason,” Sherlock snapped grudgingly. “To bind a person’s soul in one place…” He shook his head distressed, and then looked like he was attempting to withdraw further into his coat. “For possibly centuries…” Sherlock trailed off, his distaste still plainly evident in his expression.

“’Bind a person’s soul,’” John echoed, eyes wide in his paler than usual face. “Is that what really happened to us? We’re bound here?” His gaze focused sharply on Sherlock. “So not only are we ghosts, but we’re bound here… forever?”

“There is no definite proof the two of you will be in this state for what may be forever,” Mycroft told John in what could have been a soothing tone from anyone else. “However,” he continued, looking as if he wasn’t sure he should be sharing this information. “There is a precedent case in America where…”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped abruptly, successfully cutting off his brother.

Mycroft’s gaze turned to him, one brow raised inquiringly.

“How did you and Mummy know this is what happened to us?” Sherlock questioned, not fully noticing he was unconsciously cradling the other skull closer to his body.

His ploy to distract his brother was obvious to both of them, but Mycroft still complied anyway. “We didn’t, at first,” he admitted reluctantly. “Mummy’s wards set up a deafening commotion in the middle of the night, alerting the entire household that you were in severe danger- possibly life-threatening.”

Sherlock scoffed, a sarcastic sound. “I’m constantly in danger, Mycroft. It’s part of my work.”

His brother gave Sherlock a look of patient annoyance. “These are different from Mummy’s usual wards. She’s given up on those for you since you seem to set them off twice a day- and really, Sherlock, you ought to take better care of yourself. The charms set off that night were for when there was a definite likelihood you wouldn’t survive.” Mycroft pinned Sherlock with a look, as if he should understand the significance of this. “And there has only been one particular time when they’ve previously sounded.”

Sherlock froze as full understanding of Mycroft’s meaning hit him. If Mycroft was correct- and Sherlock suspected full well he was- then Mummy must have been in a state of complete distress. She worried constantly about him, even more so than his overprotective brother, and Mummy often insisted on frequent updates about his activities; and when Sherlock protested against this, she would threaten to ask Mycroft instead. After many arguments- on his part, Mummy never yelled- she had finally come to the understanding sometime in his teens that just because he didn’t share the Holmes gift, didn’t mean he couldn’t protect himself.

What had followed was years of lessons in every martial arts school Sherlock could find, and having multiple protective charms handmade by his mother thrust onto him every time he left the house. If it had been anyone else, Sherlock would have quickly become annoyed and thrown a fit; but he knew it was just because Mummy cared, and in turn worried, about him. He secretly preferred Mummy’s method over Mycroft’s, even if it was still annoying. Sherlock didn’t expect Father cared about him very much, and was just extremely disappointed in him instead, but Father had always been away so often- especially during Sherlock’s childhood.

Yet, after all those token protests and attempts at proving he was fine on his own, this had happened. If Mummy had been thrown into a panic at his first brush with near-death, despite her usual easy-going disposition, followed by his having to stay at the family mansion for two whole months in mimicry of a prison sentence, then Sherlock was certain this time would be even worse. Mummy, and Father when he was bothered enough to care, did not take threats to the Holmes family lightly.

Mycroft smiled tightly, obviously noting and understanding whatever emotions were playing across his face in response to his thoughts. “Yes, exactly,” Mycroft agreed as if Sherlock had asked a question. “And then when Mummy discovered that not only had you been killed, but also brought back…” He trailed off with a slight wince, and then shifted uncomfortably. “The estate has been in a constant uproar and state of chaos ever since. And, during our last conversation, she told me Father sent a message saying he would be home in the next day or so.”

“Does that mean this is really serious then?” John inquired, interrupting them. He looked between the two brothers, unable to remember a time when either of them had ever mentioned ‘Father;’ although ‘Mummy’ had come up several times. “If both of your parents are getting involved, I mean.”

Mycroft turn his attention to John, a worried frown tightening his expression. “It is very serious, Doctor Watson. What has been done to you and my brother is expressly forbidden by the High Council, and for very good reason. It is considered a very sinister and forceful action which goes against everything we promise in the Oath.” He shook his head critically, glancing down at the skull in his hand that had long since returned to normal. “It is not something done lightly or without numerous risks, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted. “Moriarty must have been very desperate.”

John stared at Mycroft for a very long time as he took in all of this. Then finally he snapped and rapidly shook his head. “This is insane, all of this is insane. You both do realize that ever since we came into this room I’ve barely understood a single word either of you have said.” John glared accusingly at Sherlock and Mycroft. “When I try to ask questions, you either talk over my head or answer with complete non-answers before jumping to the next topic.”

“John-“

“So either you two finally explain, and answer in words I can understand,” John quickly added the extra terms just to be certain, “Or I’ll- I’ll go off and ask ‘Mummy.’” It wasn’t the best threat, but John was tired of not understanding and he wanted answers; even if he had to go off and try to find the infamous ‘Mummy’ and ask her.

Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to consider John’s proposition for several minutes. Finally Mycroft let out a slow breath and said thoughtfully, “That may actually be the most opportune option.”

Sherlock’s response was to smirk at John and cross his arms, even if John knew better than to believe him. “I’d like to see you try,” he challenged superiorly. “You won’t make it very far.”

John waited for Sherlock to continue; to explain why he was so certain John not only wouldn’t go, but wouldn’t get very far if he did. Yet Sherlock remained insufferably silent and just continued smirking; even if John could see the worry shadowing his eyes.

Mycroft seemed to decide not to share his brother’s preference for dramatics. “I’m afraid that is not an option at the moment, Doctor Watson. One of the disadvantages of your situation is that you will not be able to go outside of this flat without someone carrying your skull with them,” he explained, and there was an apology there somewhere. “You are, effectively, tied to your skull from here on.”

John swallowed heavily, blinking nervously. “Well, that’s-“

Sherlock sighed grumpily, glaring at the wall opposite him. “How am I supposed to do my work when I can’t even leave the flat?”

There was relative silence in the room as they looked at each other or avoided gazes. Then John said quietly, with a faint hint of amusement, “I don’t think that’s what you should be worrying about right now, Sherlock.”

“In any case,” Mycroft announced firmly, changing the topic, “perhaps we should continue.” When none of the others made any protests, except for Sherlock who continued to look irritably at the skull in Mycroft’s hand, he continued. “We are aware of what has happened to Sherlock and Doctor Watson, but do not yet know the how or why. Before we contact Mummy- you have to at least tell her you are safe, Sherlock-“ Mycroft added to scold Sherlock after his annoyed grumble. “We should gather all the information we can about what occurred at the pool, following the explosion specifically.”

John frowned and said, feeling like he was repeating himself, “But we don’t know what exactly happened. All we have to go on is what the Yard’s found out.”

“And that’s hardly likely to be helpful,” Sherlock commented, not caring that Lestrade was easily within hearing distance. Lestrade did send him a reproving look, but Sherlock didn’t notice.

Mycroft gave a small, smug smile. “I have indeed read the Yard’s report on the events at the pool, and their resulting investigation.” His smile tightened slightly, looking strained. “In the meantime I have begun my own investigation focused on Moriarty.” Mycroft looked down at the skull with a near glare, clearly annoyed. “Unfortunately, he is proving extremely elusive; even for us.”

Sherlock was silently entertained at the news that his brother wasn’t completely faultless after all- except that in a dangerous time like this Sherlock had almost been counting on Mycroft’s supposed omniscience. His brother was nearly as talented as Father at being aware of everything that was happening, in both worlds in Mycroft’s case.

Lestrade, meanwhile, asked crossly on behalf of the Yard, “Was there something you wanted to say about our investigation?” He said in the same tone he used with Sherlock at his most irritating, like when the consulting detective was holding back evidence or disregarding police work as he usually did. These Holmes’ were ridiculous, and acted like they were entitled when he had never even heard the name Holmes before his first encounter with Sherlock. “We’ve been trying to track him, but the man is a ghost.” Lestrade glanced apologetically over at Sherlock and John.

John sent him a small smile and shook his head, while Sherlock looked pleased.

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied in a placating tone, fiddling slightly with the umbrella at his side. “I’m certain you are doing your very best with this investigation, Detective Inspector. I doubt it could be in better hands.”

Lestrade had known Sherlock long enough to know there was likely sarcasm somewhere in that, even if this Holmes was better at disguising it. There had been calls from his superiors in the last day or so hinting that another organization may be soon taking over the investigation. Apparently they had meant Mycroft Holmes, and whatever organization he was a part of-or headed was more likely. Lestrade didn’t like having investigations taken away from him; but he was admittedly dangerously close to it, and Holmes did seem to have a better understanding of the situation involved. Hopefully Mycroft Holmes would keep him informed of any updates, and he could ask Sherlock or John if he needed to.

Lestrade decided to just ask the question anyway. “Just who are you with if you’re running your own investigation on this? One that’s separate from ours?”

While Mycroft just smiled mysteriously in answer, Lestrade was startled when John laughed and Sherlock smirked. Both of them looked far too amused for such a simple question. He looked inquiringly at them, but neither of them said anything.

“I hold a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft explained in a patient, ‘I’m being honest,’ voice. “One that allows me to be involved in the affairs of both governments.”

Sherlock butted in just as his brother finished his supposed explanation. “Don’t believe him, Lestrade. His is the British government.” Sherlock told the Detective Inspector knowingly, “When he’s not running the world, or pretending to be a vigilante.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded, but it seemed mostly half-hearted. He also wasn’t actually denying any of what Sherlock had said, Lestrade noted. The Detective Inspector wondered if the entire Holmes family was like this- fairly sure that was a definite yes- and also just how much of his life was controlled by this man. For Sherlock to announce so nonchalantly that his brother was the government… how had John gotten so used to this craziness?

“Of course you will be continuing your investigation, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft informed Lestrade, sounding reassuring despite the sharp smile. “You simply may find that we will possibly be following… other avenues of interest.”

Lestrade was sure the confusion he felt at the phrase ‘other avenues’ was clear on his face, but this time he didn’t dare ask. He was sure there were some things about this situation he shouldn’t know. “Well, thanks very much,” Lestrade said as sincerely as he could manage.

Sherlock’s brother just gave him a polite smile, but didn’t say anything more. Instead he turned again to Sherlock and John.

“I don’t suppose either of you have any memories of what happened after the explosion?” Mycroft inquired mildly, obviously expecting their answers to be in the negative.

“No, not really,” John replied after a long pause. He didn’t really want to think about that night at the pool. But even as he thought that, quick flashes of images from that night rose, unwanted: his gun held tightly in Sherlock’s hand, water reflecting from the pool onto the walls and ceiling- causing everything they did or say to echo, Moriarty’s icy-eyed sneer, that horrible red dot on Sherlock’s forehead, locking eyes with Sherlock in a meager attempt to reassure him.

Then pain, horrible pain, and now he knew what it was like to be roasted alive with fire everywhere, and he couldn’t see Sherlock anymore, where was Sherlock? Fighting against the pain to try and find Sherlock, to see beyond the fire…

“John?” Sherlock’s voice called from far away, and John began to struggle against the sudden darkness in order to see him. “John!”

There were other voices coming from farther away, muffled, but John didn’t pay them any attention. He just tried to focus on Sherlock.

“Damnit John,” John heard his friend say- since when did Sherlock curse?- and then there was a slight pressure against the sides of his face. “Focus John, focus.”

This was just like that evening at the train yard; was Sherlock going to start spinning him now? No, Sherlock was right. He needed to focus.

First of all, they weren’t at the pool- they were safe back at Baker Street. Sherlock was standing very close- almost too close- with his fingers against John’s temples and palms at his cheeks. He could feel Sherlock’s breath ghosting across his face, and the tension practically thrumming through his friend’s body. It was just him and Sherlock… alone, safe…

John let out a long, slow breath as he felt the panic subsiding and he finally began to relax. Then, when his heart stopped trying to beat its way out of his chest, John slowly opened his eyes.

His first thought was that he’d been right; Sherlock was standing so close he could barely breathe. And now he knew why Sherlock had seemed so tense, and why he’d cursed so uncharacteristically. John had been hoping Sherlock would look at him like that for months now, but the conversation at Angelo’s that first night had nearly completely destroyed his hopes.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, staring up into his friend’s face to try and accurately read the look in those eyes. He had gotten better at reading Sherlock, but not always well.

When Sherlock realized John was once more aware and had opened his eyes, he leaned back so there was more space between them. “Alright then?” Sherlock inquired in a low voice, lowering his hands away from John’s face. He stuck in hands inside the pockets of his coat but then a few seconds later took them back out again.

John did his best to fight back a smile. “Yeah,” he reassured simply with a nod. “I’m fine.”

John then turned, still keeping Sherlock close, to look at Mycroft and Lestrade. Unsurprisingly Mycroft was looking between him and Sherlock with a definite amused expression; while Lestrade was studying him and looking worried. Just what did he think he would do?

“Sure you’re alright?” The Detective Inspector asked, not sounding like he quite believed John. He glanced briefly at Sherlock as if to check.

John’s smile was a little tighter this time. “Yeah, definitely.”

After a sharp look at John and Sherlock, Mycroft turned to Lestrade. “If you’ll come with me, Detective Inspector, we should see if Mrs. Hudson owns a mirror she is willing to lend us.”

Lestrade tore his eyes from Sherlock and John to look doubtfully at Mycroft. “A mirror? What do we need a mirror for?”

Mycroft just smiled at him. “To see if there is any more information we can obtain before our visit to Mummy.”

Lestrade’s expression was one that John often used when Sherlock suggested something he didn’t understand but decided to go along with anyways. “Well, alright then,” he agreed reluctantly, secretly wondering at his own sanity. Lestrade then followed Mycroft out of the room, casting only one last look at Sherlock and John before he disappeared through the doorway.

After a minute or so of friendly silence, John turned back to Sherlock. “Well,” he commented lightly, smiling, “we’re certainly having a busy afterlife.”

Sherlock laughed one of his rare, honest laughs. “You wouldn’t have it any other way,” he accused kindly.

“No,” John agreed warmly, “I wouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All together now: "awwwwwww!"  
> Yeah, that fluff snuck in somehow at the end... no idea how. *whistles*
> 
> Epilogue (which is actually a chapter in itself) comes next week.
> 
> **** Just to check, you guys want me to keep going onto the next story, right? I mean, at the moment I do have two chapters written of the next edition in this story, and am working on more (once I get done with this ridiculous plunny that kind of stole my brain). But, it might be awhile ^^;; I'm not sure.
> 
> Also: any comments/feedback/advice/or ideas for the part are welcome. And I mean, very very welcome. ****


	7. Epilogue... kinda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the beginning comes to an end, and the middle and end appear on the horizon. Also, an epilogue that is really an actual chapter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Am I good at coming up with chapter summaries or what? ;p)
> 
> ~~~ * ~~~
> 
> Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock and its characters belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. (Unfortunately). This also hasn't been brit-picked so I apologize for any Americanisms.
> 
> A/N: This story is my first (posted) in the Sherlock fandom, and comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their respective authors.
> 
> Also, YOU GUYS ARE TOTALLY AWESOME! Thank you SO SO much for all the kudos, bookmarks, and even just hits you've left me. I treasure every single one of them. I'm just happy all of you are reading this and seem to be enjoying it! You make this writer very, very happy! I hope you continue to enjoy this little story, I've certainly enjoyed writing it.
> 
> And please, please let me know if you have any questions/comments/advice or really anything. I am grateful to ALL of you.
> 
> <3
> 
> And now.... the end of the beginning....

Nearly as soon as they came back into the hallway, a smartly-dressed dark-haired woman walked over to them.

With one eye on the blackberry still in her hand, she held out another mobile to Mycroft.

“There’s a call for you, sir.”

Mycroft turned to fully face her, slightly preoccupied with his set task. “I’m can’t take any calls at the moment. Please tell them I’ll call back at another time,” he instructed her civilly.

Anthea gave him a strained smile, but her eyes were dancing. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” she replied, still holding out the mobile. At his inquiring look she explained, sounding amused, “It’s your mother.”

Mycroft’s expression was the same alarmed one of any child caught evading calls from their mother. He eyed the mobile carefully. “Thank you, Anthea,” Mycroft told her, taking it from her hand. Since people like him often didn’t get on well with phones, magic and electricity just did not mix, Anthea usually handled his calls and he resorted to using the speakerphone when he was alone. But in public, for direct calls he answered himself and did his best to control his power. This tactic did, luckily, work most of the time. “I’ll just be a moment, Detective Inspector,” he informed Lestrade before walking some distance away.

“Hello?” Mycroft greeted mildly once he’d brought the phone up to his ear.

“Mycroft Holmes,” his mother’s voice reprimanded barely a second later, “is that any way to greet your mother?”

Mycroft winced at her tone; it was one he’d often heard right before a thorough dressing-down. After many years of experience he had found that while Mummy was the more affectionate and kind of their parents, she also had a backbone of steel. He theorized that this was from dealing with Father for so many years, but he would never actually so. Especially to Sherlock since his brother highly favored Mummy over their father. Although Mycroft didn’t entirely blame his brother for that.

He returned the mobile to his ear and apologized regretfully, “Sorry, Mummy.”

She laughed as if she hadn’t just been scolding him. “That’s quite alright darling. I just thought we might have a bit of fun,” Mummy explained kindly. “To distract ourselves from the situation at hand.” Mummy’s odd sense of humor had always been a source of contention between her and Father. Father always insisted on seriousness, and looked down on anything that could even be remotely considered humorous; while Mummy enjoyed making people laugh and being kind to others. As he and Sherlock grew up, their parents had tried to instill both sets of values in them- with varying results.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied understandingly. Then he began slowly, carefully, “Mummy…”

There was a soft sigh from the other end of the line. “You found him then,” Mummy said quietly, sounding quite relieved. If the house was still as frenzied as it had been the last time Mummy called, then he imagined it would be a great relief to her that Sherlock had been found. It also meant that now Sherlock was safe, and they could relax on that front to focus on something else.

“Yes, Mummy. He was at Baker Street, just as we predicted,” Mycroft said, thankful that their predictions had been correct. Then he added with slight guilt, “And Doctor Watson as well.”

Mummy sighed softly in his ear. “Ah, that is unfortunate. I had hoped he wouldn’t have suffered the same fate as Sherlock,” Mummy said regretfully, the previous relief in her voice having faded away. She had never met Doctor Watson in person, at least to Mycroft’s knowledge, but he had continued to keep her up to date through their twice-weekly calls. Mummy was well-aware of Doctor Watson and Sherlock’s relationship, mostly through his own interpretation. Both of them had hoped Sherlock would grow even more under Doctor Watson’s friendship and care, but that seemed unlikely now.

“How are they? Do they seem all right?” Mummy asked worriedly after a long pause during which she seemed to be thinking.

It was Mycroft’s turn to think now, and he puzzled over what exactly to tell Mummy. He knew what Sherlock and Doctor Watson had actually said, but Mycroft also knew- at least related to his brother- better than to believe every word. As for Doctor Watson, despite the man’s normally expressive face, he was infuriatingly not always easy to read as he should; yet Mycroft refused to force Doctor Watson to speak his mind as Father was accustomed to do with stubborn informants.

“Sherlock is the same as ever, Mummy,” Mycroft told her honestly, fighting down the urge to let out his impatience with something small and meaningless. “As much as you might expect,” he added carefully, hoping she would understand his meaning. “As for Doctor Watson, he seems to be having more difficulty adjusting.”

“Not very surprising,” Mummy replied thoughtfully. Then she hummed softly before continuing more briskly, “Well, I suppose it would be best for the three of you to come to the mansion as soon as possible. Sherlock and Doctor Watson will be the safest here, I think.”

Mycroft waited patiently as she turned from the phone and raised her voice slightly to call for someone. He did his best to attempt not to listen as Mummy gave the person extremely detailed instructions before sending them away again. “You will do your best to get Sherlock and Dr. Watson here, won’t you darling?” Mummy asked of him in her sweetest tone, even though Mycroft knew there was no sense in disagreeing at all.

“Of course, Mummy,” Mycroft quickly replied in the affirmative. He would have taken Sherlock and Dr. Watson to their family home anyways, but Mycroft hoped that being an instruction from Mummy would help to convince them. “You haven’t happened to find out anything new, have you?” Mycroft asked hopefully. He hadn’t had a chance to speak with Anthea yet to see if there had been any new information on his part, but Mummy was even more likely to be lately briefed on the situation.

“Unfortunately not,” Mummy told him, once again sounding upset. “This Moriarty character seems to have his hand in everything yet left no trace at all. I have everyone I know working in it, including those in the High Council; but there doesn’t seem to be anything information on him.” She paused, leaving a heavy silence. Then Mummy continued slowly, and if it were anyone else Mycroft would think she was being hesitant, “Mycroft, darling, you won’t tell Sherlock will you? It’s just that, well you know how he gets sometimes, and I know he will never let it go if he hears even anything of what we have found.”

Mycroft did know exactly what she meant. But he feared that it was already too late; he had no doubt that as soon as Sherlock had realized what happened to him he’d began working away at the problem, attempting to deduce just how Moriarty had done this to him and Dr. Watson. Mycroft was certain that there was very little that could distract his brother from his deductions now.

Mummy must have understood his silence, because she sighed quietly and sounded very tired as she said, “Well then, I suppose it wasn’t very likely to begin with. But you will look after him, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mummy,” Mycroft told her once more. “We’ll try to come as soon as is possible,” he gently reassured, wondering just how easy it would be to convince Dr. Watson and especially Sherlock. “However, there is one more thing I would like to do first.”

“And what is that, darling?” Mummy asked, sounding honestly interested. Mycroft hoped she would approve of and let him follow through with his plan; it was likely to be easier to attempt at Baker Street than at the mansion. Truthfully the pool would be the most optimal location, but he wasn’t heartless enough (whatever others may think) to subject Sherlock and John to returning to that place. Yet it was essential for them to discover as much as possible before everything came to a head as Mycroft expected it would.

“I would like to attempt to see if I can learn what happened at the pool by using Sherlock’s skull to scry,” Mycroft told her briskly, trying to hide his hesitation. He didn’t want to get her hopes up, to have her think it would be easy. If he failed, then they would hopefully be exactly where they were now- except with a little less hope. Of course, he wasn’t the most proficient with scrying- his real skill laid elsewhere- but Mycroft wanted to attempt it all the same. “I was just in the midst of trying to find a mirror to use,” he explained, hoping she hadn’t noticed his brief silence, then cast a glance towards the hallway where Mrs. Hudson’s rooms were.

Mummy hummed quietly in his ear, as if processing this. “I suppose that would be helpful, yes. Thank you, Mycroft,” she said absently, and then added, “I want to also thank you for looking after your brother. Especially at this difficult time and when I know you are busy with work.”

“It’s no problem at all, Mummy,” Mycroft reassured dutifully. “Work doesn’t need me as much right now; and it’s more important to look after Sherlock, and Dr. Watson as well.” He sighed, knowing it wouldn’t last very long, “at least in these first weeks.” Anthea could take care of work matters in his absence; she had already proven herself perfectly capable before and he more than enough trusted her. Also, although he was extremely invested in his work, unlike Father, Mycroft understood that sometimes family was more important; even if such work involved helping to protect their world.

Mummy laughed, obviously capable of reading between the lines of what he’d said. “I’m certain that you are very busy Mycroft, but I am glad you’re willing to help your brother and Dr. Watson. If you do scry, will you remember to bring the-“ She broke off abruptly, and Mycroft pressed the phone tighter against his ear in order to hear better.

“Mummy? Mummy, is something-?”

In the middle of his question Mummy resumed talking, but sounded oddly distracted. “No, no darling. I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she argued, sounding distressed as she attempted to persuade whoever was bothering her. “We have it under control, everything is under control-“

“I doubt that very much, Amelia.” Mycroft tried very hard not to flinch at the sound of his father’s voice, especially when he spoke in his strictest tone. “I know from experience that these types of circumstances are exceptionally difficult to control. So I find it hard to believe that you have already managed to control any aspect of this situation.”

“That may be true, Darius,” Mummy began, her voice as cold as it ever was when trying to control her temper with Father. “But I am not completely-“

As always, Father didn’t appear to be listening to her at all. “I want to talk to Mycroft, Amelia. Hand over the phone, please.”

Mycroft bristled at the demand in Father’s voice, and the obvious pause before he’d added ‘please.’ Obviously Father had been spending too much time away at work if he thought he could speak to Mummy in such a way and get away with it. Mummy may have a kind and gentle heart, but that by no means meant she was a woman willing to be treaded upon. It was unfortunate Sherlock had inherited some of Father’s less appealing qualities; including speaking his mind without any kind of filter and having no care for social niceties. During their childhood Mycroft had attempted many times to convince Sherlock that these traits were important, but his brother had always insisted on forging his own path.

Mummy must have finally given in and given Father the phone, because suddenly he was barking harshly into Mycroft’s ear, “Mycroft.”

“Hello, Father,” he greeted smoothly, trying to keep his voice level.

Father had never been one for social constructs, or avoiding discussion, so it wasn’t very surprising when he asked sharply, “How is your brother? I heard from your mother that you had found him, him and that doctor follow of his.”

Mycroft wasn’t certain how to interpret Father’s description of Doctor Watson, other then that he didn’t approve of Sherlock’s flat mate and friend- which wasn’t really news at all. It also seemed that even though Sherlock had… passed, to some extent, Father’s view of him still hadn’t really changed. He was never ‘Sherlock,’ and ‘my son’ was even rarer; instead it was often ‘your brother.’

He sighed inwardly in annoyance; he disliked always being in the middle of this constant struggle between Sherlock and Father. “Yes, I did find them. It seems their skulls were buried in the basement of their flat in Baker Street,” Mycroft reported professionally, unconsciously standing taller. “They seem to be doing as well as can be expected, but I suspect that might soon change.”

“Hmm, interesting,” Father murmured thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose that is satisfactory then. Your mother said she was going to arrange for your brother and the doctor to come here to the mansion,” he stated, framing it as more of a statement than a question.

Mycroft nodded in agreement, even though father couldn’t see him. “Yes, she said she would. We will try to get there as soon as possible, traffic and weather permitting.” He then paused indecisively, unsure if he should tell Father since the man tended to be overpowering. Yet Mycroft knew he would be unable to hide it from Father for any length of time. “There is one matter I want to take care of first.”

Father made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, one Mycroft was used to. “What is this matter then? I hope it is work-related.”

“No, Anthea is looking after that area,” Mycroft corrected lightly. Father always disliked being wrong, which often meant having the sensation of walking on eggshells around him. “I was hoping to use Sherlock’s skull to discover what exactly occurred at the pool. When Mum-Mother called I was in the midst of obtaining a mirror.”

“You mean scrying,” Father stated sternly, completely cutting through Mycroft’s explanations and sounding annoyed. “You are going to try to scry,” he said as if he were having difficulty believing Mycroft would even attempt such a thing.

As was typical with prolonged exposure to his father, Mycroft felt his patience wearing thin. It was at times like this when he didn’t blame Sherlock as much for avoiding contact with Father as much as he did. Maybe Sherlock did have it right. “Yes, Father,” Mycroft confirmed tightly.

Father made another impatient, disapproving noise. Then he quickly commanded in a voice that Mycroft knew meant there was no room for disagreement, “No, no. We can’t have that. You’ll bring the skull here- both of them would be best, I suppose- and I will do the scrying.” There was a short period of silence during which Mycroft, probably pointlessly, tried to think of a way to change Father’s mind. “That way we will be sure not to have any mistakes.”

The man was even more infuriating than Sherlock could be at his most petulant. Mycroft found himself clenching the handle of his umbrella in his hand, and had to force his fingers to uncurl. “Of course, Father,” Mycroft bit out sharply.

“Good,” Father confirmed, sounding quite proud of himself. “We’ll see you soon then.”

“Father, it may be-“

“Mycroft, darling, it’s me again,” Mummy’s voice greeted him pleasantly.

Mycroft let loose a short sigh of relief. “Hello, Mummy.”

“I’m sorry about your Father, darling,” she apologized, sounding rather tired herself. “He seems more tense than usual. I suspect something may have happened at work just before he left.”

“It’s fine, Mummy. Please don’t worry,” Mycroft said, letting his impatience fade into the background and silently adding that he was accustomed to his fathers brisk attitude. “I’ll go find Sherlock and Doctor Watson then leave right away. We’ll be there soon.”

“Wonderful,” Mummy announced, sounding quite pleased. “We’ll see you soon then. Stay safe, the three of you,” she told him affectionately like the proper mother she’d always been.

Then, before he could reply in turn, there was silence and the line went dead in his ear.

As soon as Mycroft lowered the phone from his ear, Anthea came over and stopped in front of him with an expectant look. He handed the phone over to her and instructed, straightening his jacket, “Please call a car, I’ll be going out to the mansion.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthea replied, already texting someone on her blackberry. She had probably already called a car; Anthea was excellent at anticipating what he needed.

Mycroft thanked her pleasantly and walked over to where the Detective Inspector was waiting, leaning against the wall looking only a little lost. “I’m afraid that I do not require your presence at the moment after all, Detective Inspector. You may return to the Yard; please just remember that you cannot under any circumstances repeat anything you’ve heard here tonight. And,” he reminded the Detective Inspector firmly, “I will be in touch.”

The Detective Inspector stared at him while straightening from the wall. “Wait, what? You can’t just tell me to go back to the Yard; I’m part of this investigation just as much as you are!”

“What we are about to do does not concern your part of the investigation,” Mycroft told him strictly, playing the superiority card. “This is more my area of expertise. I will also be taking my brother and Doctor Watson out of the city for several days.” He gestured at Anthea, who was still on her phone. “My assistant can give you the number. However, I would appreciate it if you only called in an extreme circumstance.”

Mycroft smiled graciously at the other man. “Good day, Detective Inspector,” he said before starting back down the hallway to the basement rooms. Mycroft really wasn’t looking forward to the next few days. Getting Sherlock back into his skull would be difficult enough, but with both Father and his brother in the same place for an extended period of time… Hopefully Doctor Watson’s presence had tempered Sherlock; otherwise the next several days were likely to be comparable to torture.

~~~ * ~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks! But... wait for iiiiiit...
> 
> First off: thanks again to all of you who have taken the time to read this little story of mine. I have been very very grateful for all of the feedback (little and small) you guys have left for me. I could not have done this without you guys. The readers are what counts ;)
> 
> Second: It's official, the next story in this epic *is* being written. My friend KT actually threatened to hit me with a fish, a large and alive one, if I don't finish. There have been other threats but this was the most amusing one.
> 
> UPDATE: THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE SEQUEL HAS BEEN POSTED!!!! And continues to be written ^^
> 
> Third (this will probably be the last I swear): Since the concept and rules and details of this world has been evolving in my mind as I write more, whenever I have this entire epic finished and have found out more (but by no means all, I'm sure) details about it I will probably be editing all of this and re-posting it with these details included.
> 
> So... for now that's all I can think of to say.
> 
> Thanks again, and once again: Any comments/feedback/advice, really anything, anything at all... feel free to tell/share it with me. I am completely open to everything.
> 
> Thanks so much, I love you guys!
> 
> <333


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